


Restoration

by pink_ink



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Bottom!Ian, Burns, Closeted Mickey, Dirty Talk, Explicit Sexual Content, Future Fic, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Pining, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Smut, Some Fluff, Some angst, Top!Mickey, early 20s, emotional sex and smut, fistfights, fully consensual possessive sex, housebuilding/construction worker AU, memories of past abuse, memories of self-injury, morning sickness/vomiting, slowish burn, small scars, thoughts about cutting, thoughts of self-injury, tw self injury, tw vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-30
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-04-28 23:01:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 112,759
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5108801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pink_ink/pseuds/pink_ink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Old house, new love. Construction workers Ian and Mickey meet on a home restoration job.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Foundation

It’s a shitty apartment building. That much is clear. All brick, rotting window frames, plywood on glass, bent metal fire escape. Ian sighs as he puts the van in park. Work said it was a restoration. If that’s true, they’ll have a long way to go. 

He reaches for his metal clipboard to double-check the address and developer’s name. Address: 1941 S. Emerald Ave. Check. Developer: J. Kowalski. Ian sighs again, sets the clipboard in his lap, drains the last of his coffee, runs a hand through his hair. 

It’s still cool outside in the mornings, a chill before the sun hangs bright. Spring came late this year, so everyone is crunched. He’s lucky to work all year. People’s furnaces go out in the winter just like the air conditioners go out in the summer. For some of the guys, work dries up as fall bears down. That’s when some guys put the attachment on their pickups and start snow-plowing streets at 4 a.m. 

But this time of year, this is the golden time. Tired arms and legs and sweat, not enough beer in the world to soothe the constant ache. Guys work fast, really fast, to go onto the next thing as quickly as possible. He’s never done anything that big. Doesn’t frame, doesn’t hang drywall, doesn’t do flooring or carpentry. He deals with heat and cold, air ducts and pilot lights and radiators and giant air conditioners for hotels. He still does wiring, sometimes, just like he used to when he first started. But mostly it’s this, and it’s not so close to hurting him if he wanted it to. The heat doesn’t burn him. The cold doesn’t bother him. Straightforward, not a ton of guesswork. In and out, most of the time. 

He opens the van doors to get out his tools. He turns and looks back at the building. The front door is shut, and he doesn’t see anyone around. 

He pulls out his phone. No texts, no missed calls. “Huh,” he says out loud. 

The stairs and small porch are cracked and crumbling and obviously won’t make the cut. The door is solid, but the decent size window–covered in plywood, of course–will be drafty. Someone who buys this place – this old brick quad apartment turned into a single family– will love that door right away, not thinking about how much heat they’ll lose because of it. He tries the doorknob. It’s shut tight. He knocks, waits. Knocks, waits again. 

Huh. He steps down off the stoop and finds a space in between boards on the side of the house. He pulls out his flashlight. It’s small enough to fit his hand, but strong enough he doesn’t need another. He squints next to the beam of light. Is that a fireplace? He squints harder, moves the light as far as he can back and forth. Just the fireplace and some busted walls. Nothing else. But big old places like this? If there is one fireplace, there are at least two more. 

Ian turns the flashlight off and moves back to the front of the house. He finds Hayley’s direct line and presses send. 

“Bowman HVAC! This is–” 

“Hayley, it’s Ian.” 

“Ian?” 

“Yeah,” he says, “I’m at the site and nobody’s here. Can you check the schedule for me?” 

“Sure,” she says. He hears her typing. “Sorry I didn’t catch your number,” she says. “Things went crazy after you left and calls are flying.” 

“No sweat,” he says. He puts the flashlight back in with the other tools. 

“Okay,” she says. “Yeah, he’s supposed to be there. He’s friends with Don. He got pushed to the top of the list. I’m surprised he’s not there yet.” 

Ian runs his hand through his hair. “I’m not,” he grumbles. When people know people, they expect special treatment. "I’m only gonna wait half an hour.” 

“Hey, sit tight. I’ll put you on hold and get Don for you.” 

“‘K,” Ian says. He sits on the crumbling stoop. He didn’t hear about the foundation yet, but he doubts it’s any good. He looks up and down the block. It’s happening all over, these days. All over the south side, house by house, block by block. More and more are tear-downs. Complete tear downs. Nothing. Just a broken space where the foundation is, a space in bleeding gums with a tooth pulled out. Guys showing up taking turns with sledgehammers and bobcats. More and more dumpsters. Tall ones, enough to put parts of a whole house in. 

It had happened to his house. Not the knocked down part. Not even the fixed up part. Two years after his stint in the hospital, two years after the Lisas made that community garden, they sold the lot (for a hefty profit, of course), and a three story house was squeezed in right next to theirs. Tony was still there next door, but they had built up and out, too. Kev and Vee stayed the same, thank Christ. Across the street, peppered here and there, houses sold out from under the people renting, Section 8 housing shut down. No problem, investors said! A sign on every pole : I WANT YOUR HOUSE. ANY CONDITION. 7 DAY CLOSE. CA$H!!! 

Here comes one house taller, one house wider. The neighborhood had been called “transitional” for so long. Ian realizes, now, that he didn’t really grasp what that meant. Didn’t fully understand gentrification. What it looked like. What it felt like. 

Now he knows. The neighborhood had transitioned to something he didn’t recognize. It doesn’t feel the same. It looks the same. Kind of. He can walk the streets with his eyes closed, but when they are open, his eyes pull up and over against new pale blue siding, new front porches, perfectly manicured lawns with new sod. He doesn’t hear a lot of noise, anymore. Not a lot of music, not the smell of small charcoal grills cooking food every night in the summer. Not a lot of people walking around. It feels like a ghost town during the day. Everyone leaving their houses, going to the 9 to 5 job, coming back to their brand new five bedroom sitting on the site of what was once a run-down dingy white house specializing in crack and prostitution just the year before.

“Ian?” 

“Yeah, hey,” 

“Don’s busy, but he said the developer should be there soon,” Hayley says. “He was caught up at another site. He’s on his way.”

Ian shakes his head and fights a groan. 

Hayley must hear him, picture him. “Aw, come on. At least he’s coming.” 

Ian breathes a little laugh. “I guess,” he says. “I was hoping to just get in there and –” He lifts his head and sees a white van approaching, slowing down at the curb. “Oh good. I think he just pulled up. I’ll check in when I’m done.” 

“Great,” she says. “Thanks.” 

The developer hops out of the van with his clipboard in hand. He slams the door behind him and makes his way up the sidewalk, spits at the ground.

Jesus. Ian clears his throat. His mind flicks around and around, trying not to stare too deep into him. His jet black hair. The fullness of his lips. His fucking arms in that tank top, the wideness of his chest. 

He clears his throat again. “‘Morning Mr. Kowalski,” he says, extending a hand when the guy comes closer. “Ian Gallagher. Don sent me over.” 

The guy squints, and doesn’t take Ian’s hand. “Thought you were Kowalski.”

Great. 

“I called in,” Ian says. “They said he’d be here soon. On his way.” 

“Always say that, don’t they?” He pats his pants pocket and pulls out a pack of cigarettes, taps one out. “Like we don’t know they’re full of bullshit.” 

“I’m Ian,” he says, watching the guy light the cigarette. 

“Yeah, you said that,” the guys says, blowing smoke out of his nose. “What’re you here for.” 

“HVAC and maybe some more electric. You?” 

“It’s gonna be a skeleton crew. Probably runnin’ people. Maybe do drywall since someone else would just fuck up.” 

“What’s your name?” 

There is a pause as his head pulls back, breathes smoke from his nostrils. “Mickey.” 

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” He can hear the familiar lightness in his voice. A familiarity. The barest of teases, just the smallest brush of a finger against skin. Is he flirting, kind of? Is he? Shit. Stop. 

Mickey shrugs, giving Ian the tiniest frown. “Guess not,” he says. He pulls the cigarette from his lips. “You do a walk-around?” 

Ian nods, and follows Mickey as he stands up and starts to move. “Yeah, I can’t see much for me yet. Saw a fireplace inside but can’t tell up top” 

Mickey stands back and cranes his neck. "Think we got four.” 

“Thanks,” Ian says. They stand there. Ian wants to talk, say anything, but it feels so awkward. He’s still not used to this awkwardness–the difficulty with small talk. It used to come so easily to him. It used to, but if it came easy, it usually meant he had swung up. Being hypomanic wasn’t all that bad, not when it felt good. The problem is, it doesn’t always stay good. When it was good, he was magnetic, brave, not a care in the world. He made fast friends. But this. This kind of thing reminds him that a) he is healthy and b) he’s sucked back to the way he was as a young teenager, unable to play anything cool. He clears his throat again. 

Mickey’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He brings it to his ear, spits out “What.” 

His expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t say a word. Ian can hear a man’s voice on the other end. 

“Fine.” Mickey says. He meets Ian’s eyes. “Yeah, there’s another guy here.” His eyes are so blue. He can’t look away, and apparently Mickey can’t either. There is something there. Is there? There is. Something. “HVAC.” 

The man starts talking on the other end. Mickey looks away again. “Fine,” he says. He jams the phone back in his pocket. 

“What–” 

“Aint comin’,” Mickey says. 

“What? Why?” 

Mickey throws his cigarette down and rubs it out with his shoe. “Why the fuck not?” He sets his jaw. “Said we should come tomorrow though. Same time.” 

Ian nods, “Oh...kay? I guess I’ll call work, then.” 

Mickey starts backing up, heading away from the house. Ian follows. They open their van doors and set the tools inside. 

“So, I guess this was like a prank call, huh?”

“Whatever,” Mickey says casually. “See ya.” 

*

He’s already there when Ian pulls up to the curb the next morning. He’s squinting while listening to another guy, shaking his head. Mickey turns his head a bit to gesture at Ian with his chin as he shuts his car door. 

“You must be Ian Gallagher,” Kowalski says. “Don told me good things about your work.” He extends his hand, and Ian takes it. 

“Glad to hear it,” Ian says. 

Kowalski smiles, crosses his arms. “Don said you might be interested in staying on to run final wiring?” 

“Oh,” Ian says, trying to cover his surprise. That’s a long job. “Yeah, I’d be happy to.” 

Kowalski reaches a hand out again. “Good man. I'll be honest, here. I hire small crews - best of the best. This baby’s gonna bring some bank in.” 

Ian sees Mickey roll his eyes behind his back and he fights a grin. Mickey opens his mouth. “So does this have status or can we tear out?” 

Kowalski breathes out. “We got the status. It’ll be a work-around, not lyin’. You guys know the drill.” Ian and Mickey both nod. “How ‘bout you get at it and let me know what you got.” He tosses Mickey the keys. “I gotta get to another site in Hyde Park. You got water?” 

“In the van,” Ian says. 

“Good man,” Kowalski says again, walking to his truck. 

Mickey heads up to unlock the door before Kowalski pulls away. He lets the door hang open. 

“You comin’?” 

“Yep,” Ian says. He grabs his flashlight and follows. 

The building is damp. Dirt of course. Buckled wood floors, holes in the walls, rat’s nests in the corners. 

“Better fumigate this fucker before we start rippin’.” 

“Seen worse,” Ian says. “Once I had to go into a flooded basement. The survivors weren’t happy.” 

They chuckle. 

“You know who’s doing the framing?” Ian asks. 

Mickey shakes his head. “‘S’long as it’s not me.” 

“Right.” 

Ian crouches to look at an outlet. He can see straight through it to the outside. “Ah,” he says. “Okay. Gotta grab my board.” He sees Mickey isn’t holding his metal clipboard. “Want me to grab yours?” 

“Nah,” Mickey says, looking up the fireplace Ian had seen through the window. He taps the side of his head, his temple. “Got it up here. Write it down later.” 

Wow. Okay. He nods. “Be right back.” 

“Wait,” Mickey says. “Lemme see that flashlight.” 

Ian crosses over. Mickey is holding his hand out beside him, face still half-under the fireplace opening. Ian tries not to stare at the way he looks bent down like that. He passes him the flashlight. 

“Thanks,” Mickey says. “Got another one?” 

“Nope.” 

“Cool if we share it?” 

“Sure.” 

Mickey stands up again. “Two of these gotta be upstairs. Think we’re gonna cap ‘em?” 

“Probably,” Ian shrugs. “I’ll do a gas conversion estimate just to be sure.”

Mickey nods again. “I’ma go upstairs. Takin’ this,” he says, gesturing with the flashlight. He takes a few steps before stopping, turning to say “that okay?” 

“Sure.” Ian slows as he reaches the door. He watches Mickey walk upstairs, hand finding the newel post, sliding along the thick oak railing. This building is beautiful, so beautiful, underneath it all. Ian’s been on jobs like this before. Renovations are hard. Restorations are harder. Much harder than knocking it down and starting over. But there’s something to it, that feeling of saving something that was beautiful, once. Tossed out. Something beautiful that time and circumstance tried to destroy with carelessness, with anger, neglect. 

It takes time to see it. Truly see it, underneath. It’s something revealed, slowly, carefully under practiced fingers. Boards off windows, new glass inside, light coming in, floors smooth and uninterrupted, Rotting wood pulled away, replaced with wood so fresh the scent stays. Uneven sides sanded down, bit by bit, until your hand slides right over. 

He walks back to the house, pausing at the threshold of the front door to make sure he has enough light to read and write by. He’s made a few notes before he steps into the building again. 

“Yep,” Mickey says, walking down the stairs, flashlight in hand. “Got the two up there.” He passes the flashlight to Ian, who takes it. His eyes are peering in the dark, noting the outlets. One of the radiators still looks attached to the floor. He walks over and gives it a tap with the flashlight, makes a note of the hollow sound. 

Mickey clears his throat. “Hey,” he says. “You know what you gonna do yet? How much we can get away with?”

Ian shrugs. “I doubt we’ll stick with radiators. God, I hope not.” He tips his head up, dragging the flashlight along the ceiling. There’s lots of water damage, one large bulge where old water is probably still trapped inside. His mouth drops open, just a little, as he turns to Mickey. 

“Jesus Christ! You walked around up there?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Well, sure. Wasn’t so bad.” Looks worse than it probably is.” 

Ian nods. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.” 

Mickey reaches for the flashlight again. Ian doesn’t see him - he’s distracted enough that it startles him when Mickey’s finger brushes against his hand to take it. “You know any good gutters?” 

“I guess,” Ian says. “One guy I used to work a lot with. Sully. He does a lot of demo, but he’s quick. Really careful when he has to be.” 

“Call him. See if we can get him down here tomorrow.” Mickey says, sweeping the flashlight Ian’s direction, a quick shine in his eyes before he mutters _sorry_ under his breath. 

“Sure,” Ian says. Mickey sounds like an on-site foreman, and even though it wasn’t official, Ian knows that he is. Skeleton crew leader, all muscle. “Do you want my report or should I give it to Kowalski?” 

“I’ll look at it,” Mickey says. “I’ll look it over.” Ian passes the papers over to Mickey. He squints before he gestures toward the front door. “C’mere.” 

Ian pulls his eyes off Mickey’s back as he follows. Christ, this is going to be a long job. He leans against the doorframe and brushes dust off his arm. 

Mickey slides the corner of his lip into his mouth. “You got your phone number on this?” He stares hard at the paper, eyes flitting up quickly and then back at his paper. “Like your cell number or whatever?” 

Ian huffs a tiny breath, amused, even though it seems silly to be. “Um,” he says. “No, I’ve got my work phone on there. My work cell, but-” 

“Oh, okay,” Mickey says, fast, starting to fold the papers in half. “That’s–”

“No, wait,” Ian says, already reaching. “Give me a sec - I’ll write my real number on it. I usually shut down my work phone at night.” 

Mickey shrugs. “Okay.” He passes the papers back. Ian scribbles his number in the top corner. He adds his name, just below. As soon as he does, he internally winces. It feels like passing his number to some guy at a bar. Writing his name under his number on this sheet, a sheet with only his writing on it, a sheet with only his thoughts–

“You forget it or somethin’?” 

Ian looks up to see Mickey smiling. He looks back into his hands, smiles. “I guess,” he says, passing the paper over. “Just thinking.” 

Mickey pulls out his phone and starts typing. “I’ll talk to Kowalski. Figure out the framer. Should get my roof guys up there before it caves in.” 

Ian nods. “So nothing else for me today?” He pushes off the doorframe and starts down the steps. 

Mickey joins him, lighting a cigarette. “Yeah,” he says, “That’s good.” 

They look at each other. The gaze doesn’t break as quickly as it probably should, and Mickey closes it down. “What.” 

Ian shrugs. “Nothing. It’s nothing, sorry.” He shakes his head. “I get like this the first day or so on a new job - just thinking it through.” It’s kind of true. True enough. True enough that Mickey will probably believe him. 

Ian pulls his van door open, setting his tools inside, then pausing. “Hey, you still want my flashlight?” 

“Yeah, man,” he says. “That’d be sweet. Thanks.” 

Ian passes it over, then awkwardly puts his hands in his pants pockets. He pulls his eyes away from Mickey’s and let them skirt around the place where the building meets the ground, trying to see below it with x-ray vision. 

“It’s solid,” Mickey says, catching his eyes. “That’s the one solid thing about it. Got it sitting pretty. Kowalski told me. I’m gonna go down to the crawl space and check for sure, though.” 

“Wait,” Ian says. “You shouldn’t go in there by yourself. I can stay. I–”

“Nah,” Mickey says. “I’ll be fine. We’ll be fine.” He stubs out his cigarette. “Get outta here. This mess will still be here in the morning.” 

*

It’s tiny, but Ian doesn’t need much. It’s a corner unit, windows on the south and east side. They’re drafty, but the heat in the old building congregates in Ian’s apartment. He’s tweaked the radiator over and over, but the other units get too cold if he does it too much. He’s gotten used to it. He even likes it in the winter. By the time it’s warming up, the heat goes off. The irony of this is not lost on him–his job in heating and cooling, and he can’t even control the extremes in his own apartment. 

But it’s not very warm outside yet, so the heat falls against him when he opens the front door. It’s a studio. A small kitchen with a two-burner stove and cracked tile, a low hanging cabinet that Ian opens. The bottles are slim, and he opens them quickly, shaking the pills into his palm before turning to fill a glass at the sink. He opens the fridge, pulls out some takeout. Peeks inside. Puts it back.

It’s warm. He peels off clothes and flops back on the bed. The ceiling is unevenly painted, like someone jumped up and splashed a different color white against it with a bucket. When he first moved in, two years ago now, he thought he should move his bed. He knew looking at that would drive him crazy. He’d imagine pulling a ladder up and repainting the whole thing. 

He didn’t, though. Like most things, he got used to it. 

He sighs. Before he realizes what he’s doing, his hand is sliding around his chest, rubbing against one nipple, then the other. He opens his mouth and sighs into the air. His fingers slide further down. He avoids his cock, spreading his legs open, sliding his fingers up his thighs. 

He slows down. He started without a plan, and although it seems his body didn’t care about a plan, he’d like one. He combs his mind for some past fling, but his brain shuts that door fast. Porn. Some kind of porn. Some kind of thought about–

Lips. Full lips, blushing from the soft bite of his teeth. His pale skin, muscles as he moves. He imagines the muscles flexing and moving as Ian pins him down, sucking marks into his neck as he groans through those beautiful lips. 

Ian’s found it. Mickey. His plan. As his mind draws up his face, his body, his lips, Ian thrusts up into his hand. He breathes harder as he slows and bats at his nightstand. Lube. He’s going to draw this out as much as he can, which he knows won’t really be long, but he wants to make it the best that he can. He groans as his wet hand falls on him and he turns over, head and forearm against the pillow. Mickey below him, legs spread, open and ready, whispers and groans and yeses and Ian’s mind does a good job of pretending it’s real. By the time he’s ready to come, it almost feels like Mickey’s there. Ian pulls off the bed, resting up on his knees, jerking hard a few times as comes. He fumbles for his boxers next to him to catch most of it, but he manages to miss some of it. Oh well. 

He rolls out of bed, goes into the bathroom to clean up. He hears his phone chime. Text message. Probably Lip. He’s been trying to get ahold of him for days now. Ian splashes his face with cold water. 

He pulls the takeout container out. Like it or not, it’s dinner. He pops it in the microwave, waiting in his tiny kitchen. He opens the drawer, pulls out a fork. He turns on the TV as he sits down on his bed. He blows into the box of noodles, steam rising. 

The text. Ian remembers, picking up his phone. 

_Gallagher. Your man Sully can come tmrw. Gut at 7._

Ian smiles. He’s about to write back when another message comes through. 

_This is Mickey._

Ian smiles wider. He sets the box next to his bed. It can wait. 

_Hi Mickey_ he types. _Glad you didn’t get crushed in the crawl space._

He doesn’t write back. Ian sits there, eats his noodles, watches Family Guy. But his eyes keep finding his phone again. He’s trying not to look. It’s stupid to look, but–

_Told ya it was fine. You comin?_

Ian chuckles. He fights the urge to say _I already did._ Fights the urge to type out a string of emojis, just because it would piss him off, and part of him would like to see him cranky. He knows him enough, already, for that.

_We’ll both be there._

Ian sighs, picks up the box, heads back to the kitchen. He tosses the box and washes the one little fork. He pops another plastic bottle and takes out the last pill of the day. He washes it down with a handful of tap water and shuts off the light. 

His phone vibrates as he shuts off the TV. 

_Great. See ya._

Great. See ya. Ian smiles in the dark. He closes his eyes, and his mind begins to sketch out Mickey’s face again. He breathes in and out. It’s been a while. Too long, he would have thought, before. But this is now. He’s shoved the idea of having sex aside for months. Almost a year. Sometimes, the medication changes have done most of the work for him. But spring has sprung, as they say. The thought makes Ian chuckle. 

Another time–a time that feels further and further away, thank god–he would have just turned the light on and hit the club. But this is now, This is Ian’s hand sliding against himself, thinking of a broad chest and black hair and fingers brushing his around a flashlight. The medication’s sleepy side effects begin to wash over him faster than he would like. He closes his eyes, waits for dust to settle in his mind, holding onto him until morning, a cold chill before the light, before the sun.


	2. Gut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Demolition begins and secrets are revealed

There’s a dumpster. A tall one, a long one, a 40 yard. Mickey and two other guys are already gutting the place, throwing things thing in the dumpster when Ian pulls up, Sully in the passenger seat. 

“We late?” Sully asks, opening his door and slamming it behind him. 

“Don’t think so,” Ian says. 

“You’re late!” Mickey shouts over. 

“You said 7?” 

“It’s 7:15, jackass.” 

Sully walks over, extends his hand. “Shit. My fault, man.” 

Mickey squints, but shakes hands anyway. “Late again and I tell Kowalski you’re out.” His eyes move to Ian’s, his arms cross in front of him, hands falling against elbows. “You too.” 

Jesus. So it’s like this. Okay. Through his embarrassment, Ian’s happy to know Mickey is so careful, so serious. He needs careful. He needs serious. Needs to know where he stands. Still, he wants to slink away with his tail between his legs. It’s a thing. It’s such a little thing. But Ian has to force himself to stand tall as Sully walks up to the house with Mickey, finding a place to begin. 

*  
Ian had to run out for Bowman before he could come back to Emerald. A quick tune up, but it was a solid 30 minutes away. On the way back, two lanes are shut down on Dan Ryan. Jackknifed truck. Standstill. Ian shuts off the radio and runs his hand through his hair. He pulls out his phone to text Mickey. 

_Stuck on Dan Ryan. Big accident._

He leans his head back on the headrest, breathes deeply. He holds the phone up again to check the time. It’s time. He reaches over to open the glove compartment and pulls out a circular pillbox. He pops one and washes it down with his now-cold coffee. 

_What exit_

He knows what Mickey means. _Pershing. I’m getting off. Just stuck here. 20 minutes so far_

_Ok_

Okay. He closes his eyes and opens them. Fuck. This isn’t going the way he hoped. He remembers the word crestfallen from english class, shortly before he tested out. Crestfallen. It’s how he feels, with him, with this. 

Things begin to move, creep along slowly. He’s still going to be here. He squirms in his seat. Times like this, he remembers being trapped. Trapped in the hospital, trapped in the cage inside his body. He sticks his arm out of the window, brings the passenger window down. He breathes in and out, slowly. 

This is when he starts to worry. Things like this. This is when he has to say things to himself, things like: everyone hates traffic. Everyone gets fidgety. It has nothing to do with mania. Nothing. He looks at himself in his side mirror. Objects are closer than they appear. 

He pulls out the phone again. He remembers what he wrote on his support list, and he feels like he has to use it. He doesn’t want to admit how quickly he goes to that place, that place of feeling like his stomach is dropping, like he’s grabbing at threads to stay still. But his list is his list, and there is someone who is first. He presses the button and waits. 

Lip picks up on the second ring. “Hey, dude. Where’ve you been?” 

Ian still looks at himself in the mirror, watches himself speak. “Just working. Been crazy. Sorry it took so long to get back to you.” 

There’s a pause. “You doin’ okay?” 

Ian nods a few times. “Yeah, I’m just...tired. I’m stuck in traffic. Sucks.” 

“You sound a little weird. Got that tone. You okay?"

Ian rubs his hand on his head. “Don’t have a tone. Just feel a little scattered waiting here. Just frustrated.” Lip doesn’t say anything, so he starts talking again. “How’s work?” There. Not hypomanic. Not hypomanic. Then he wouldn’t give a shit about how Lip was doing, not enough to ask, anyway. Not enough to stop talking. 

“Work’s work. In the lab right now. Amanda’s coming by with Ruby. Show her off to the guys.” 

Ian smiles. “How’s she doing?” 

“Who,” Lip says. “Ruby? Or Amanda?”

“Both.” 

“Amanda’s okay. You know, still sore and stuff, we’re not sleeping. Ruby’s good. She’s staying awake longer during the day.” 

Ian smiles. “I bet she changed a lot in a week. They always change so quick.” 

“See,” says Lip, a smile in his voice. “I’m still not sure how you manage to see my wife and child on a regular basis, yet refuse to call me back.” 

Ian laughs. “That’s easy. You’re not as cute as your wife and child.” 

Lip laughs too. “There it is. So it doesn’t have to do with bipolar traffic. You’re just an asshole."

Ian sighs. “Traffic isn’t bipolar, Lip.” 

“Like hell it’s not! One minute fine, one minute a nightmare.” 

Ian groans. “You know better not to say that kind of shit.” 

“Lighten up, dude. We don’t get to grow up with Monica and not make a few jokes.” 

Ian grits his teeth but forces himself to release. “I guess.” He cranes his neck. Traffic is finally starting to move. “Hey,” he says. “Cars are moving, I gotta go.” 

“Wait,” Lip says. “You’re not doing this because you’re mad at me now.” 

“Not mad.” 

“Fuck you aren’t.” 

Ian sighs. “Okay, fine, maybe a little. I’ll tell Amanda all about it when I see her. Who knows when I’ll see you again.” 

Lip laughs. “We’ll see about that.” 

Ian turns on his blinker. Just a few more cars. “I gotta go, man. It’s opening up.” 

They hang up and Ian tosses his phone on the seat. There’s a buzz as it lands. A text. His fingers want to grab for it, but he can’t yet. Mickey? He squints fast at the name. Maybe. 

He pulls up to a stoplight and is already grabbing the phone as the brake hits the floor. 

_Sully’s great, man. Thanks._

He smiles. _Good. Off DR. Be there soon._

Ian looks at himself in the mirror again. He’s smiling. Even his eyes. The light turns green and he heads for Emerald, two blocks right and four blocks left, then about three miles. He’s still smiling when he pulls up, catches his grin again as the van stops. Objects are closer than they appear. 

Sully’s walking out of the house, debris mask pulled off his mouth. He raises a hand in greeting. 

“Hey,” Ian calls up. How’s it going?” 

Sully nods, but he’s panting. “It’s going.” 

He’s startled when he hears Mickey’s voice, startled to see Mickey flinging an armful of boards into the dumpster. Mickey turns and swipes his arm against his forehead. “Goin’ good enough we’ve almost filled this bitch.” 

Ian nods. “What can I do?” 

Mickey steps toward him, eyes gliding somewhere against Ian’s chest, shoulders, face. He’s breathing hard, sweat at his hairline. Ian shouldn’t want him as much as he does. Not here, not now. But his shirt sticks to his chest, and his mouth opens and closes, and he stretches out his arms, just a bit. Ian swallows. 

“C’mon,” Mickey says, turning. “Come check it out.”

Most of the drywall in the front is gone. He hears banging from the back of the house so he assumes there’s some kitchen or bathroom demo happening. There’s insulation on the ground with telltale shredding from mice and rats. Mickey gestures toward the stairs. “Sully and I been workin’ upstairs. C’mon.” 

Ian follows him up the stairs, trying to trail behind him, but not too close. He holds the railing to keep from tripping over himself. “The floor okay? That water damage?” 

“Sure,” Mickey says. “Not soft, but I did a kinda rope-off. You’ll see it.” 

Mickey pauses as he reaches the top of the stairs, steps aside to let Ian into his space. They lock eyes. Mickey parts his lips, drags his lip into his mouth. Ian can feel his body vibrate. They are standing so close. Ian could lift his hand a touch him. He drops his eyes, and when he looks up, Mickey is still there. 

“So." 

"So." 

Mickey fidgets slightly, like he forgot what he was going to say. He opens his mouth. "Got bees.” 

“Shit, really?” Ian feels himself leaning forward just the slightest bit. The space at the top of the stairs is small, and Mickey doesn’t seem to be in any rush to move. “Like, still in there?” 

“Nah,” Mickey says. “Gone now. Big hive though. Got some black mold in a bathroom and part of a bedroom. Got some raccoon shit all over another room. 

“Ooh,” Ian says, smiling. “Sounds like I need a tour.” 

Mickey grins. He digs in his pocket for a mask. “Put this on,” he says. 

Ian rolls his eyes but puts it on. He follows Mickey from room to room. All the drywall is gone, all the insulation is off the walls and mostly off the floor and out of the house. Sure enough, mold here and there. 

“Raccoons must have come from the attic." Mickey says. “Tons of shit up there. Vacated though.” 

“Carpenter ants,” Ian says, finger finding the corner of the ceiling. “Damn that’s a big nest.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, I know. It’s like Noah’s fucking ark in here. 

They look at each other, smiling. A soft laugh. Mickey breaks the contact, walking ahead to push against a doorframe. He looks up above the door, gestures at the small window with the latch, gestures to similar doors around them. “Hey. Uh, whattaya think about these transoms? You like em?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah, they’re cool. I like thinking about people opening them up at night back in the day.” The sides of the transom windows are painted shut, of course, but the glass is miraculously intact. “They’re in pretty good shape.” 

Mickey bites his lip and lets it go. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ve been trying to decide if we should keep ‘em. Probably should. Kowalski’d want us to. I like em. Don't know. Just wondered what you thought.” He shrugs and as his eyes fall away from the transom, he finds Ian’s eyes again. He shrugs again. “Enough of this. I’ll show you what we did downstairs. Sully’s gonna take out a wall.” 

*  
Ian unlocks his front door with a sigh. It’s been such a long day. Everything is stuffy. He groans and heads for the bathroom. He barely waits for the shower to heat before he gets in. He lets the water run over his face, sliding down his sternum, sliding down and down and dropping off. He’s so tired. He didn’t even do much. He mostly moved from place to place, squinting in sunlight and rushing toward the next thing. But that's enough. It's enough to tire him. It’s too much. He closes his eyes as he turns to face the wall, water slipping over his back, sliding down the cleft of his ass. He closes his eyes and thinks of Mickey. 

He hears his phone ringing. He knows he won’t make it in time, but he shuts the shower off anyway. He doesn’t bother getting dressed. He makes his way to the kitchen to get his pill and poke through cupboards for something to eat. Vegetable soup and some pringles. Good enough. 

He heats up the soup, watching it turn in the microwave. He opens the door to take the bowl out, pulls back with a hiss, and curses himself for trying to grab it. He pulls it out with potholders and decides to grab his phone. There’s the missed call, but then a text. It feels like his heart stops. 

_I’d like to see you. Want to talk about something. Could you come by work?_  


He slowly sets the phone down. He goes back to the soup and cradles it in the potholders, making his way to the table. He picks up the spoon, puts it to his mouth, but stops. He puts the spoon down. He tries again, but his stomach is churning with nerves. He pushes his chair back. 

He makes his way to his dresser, pulling out jeans and a t-shirt. He dresses quickly and pauses as he picks up his wallet. He opens it. Closes it. 

He sits back at the table. He begins to eat, slowly. The thing in his stomach is still there, deep in his gut. He makes it about halfway through his bowl before he can’t wait any longer. He checks the time. Shit. He sighs. He stands up and puts his last pill in his pocket. It’s best to wait until he’s in bed, that way the anti-psychotic’s side effects don’t throw him or bring down his guard. He’s made it a practice to not take it in public, even though it doesn’t pull him down as fast anymore. He wants to be home in time. Wants to wait. But he doesn’t know how long he’s going to be gone. 

He picks up the phone again. _I’ll be there soon_

* 

It’s been a while. That’s a good thing. The lights bother his eyes, now, and the heavy bass doesn’t move him the same way anymore. It’s distracting. Everything is too busy, and he’s already ready to go. 

He isn’t looking. It’s that simple. But as he presses through the crowd, he feels eyes and shoulders brushing him, a hand here or there. “Excuse me,” he barks as he traps someone’s wandering hand in his, rough at the wrist. The man’s eyes go wide, and Ian tosses his hand down. He isn’t stupid. He isn’t new to this. He knows where he is, what this all means, what it says without speaking. He knows that there are people here, right now, just nameless in the crowd, that know him. Remember him. From before. He can’t remember them. Won’t remember them. Refuse to remember them. No one knows him. Not like this. Not now.

Except him. Except Tom, leaning over the bar, holding bottles above glasses. Ian makes his way over, finds a seat on the end, quiet. Next to the plastic box with olives, lemon wedges, limes, maraschino cherries. Ian folds his hands and waits. 

Tom finds him, gives him a shy smile. Ian fidgets. He thinks he knows what’s coming. The pit of his stomach felt increasingly raw as he made his way here. It had been what, three years ago A year before the hospital? It was never serious, what they had. What, a month? Maybe a dozen times? He remembers them being really good, however many times there were. They had stayed friendly enough. But he doesn’t want to go back. It just means too much, too many feelings like this, crossing over like this. It doesn’t matter how nice Tom is, how sexy or funny or whatever. There’s too much, too much weight to it all. There's so much he can't separate. 

Ian sighs. His hands clench around themselves, fidget. He’s been trying to figure out what to say the whole way here. _I’m not looking for anything. No, I mean not ANYTHING anything. Not even that._ That sounds oddly rude. Better to make it about himself. _I’m not ready. I’m still not doing all that well._ That was kind of a lie. At least the second part. But sometimes lies are kinder than truths. He's going to go with that. 

Tom is leaning across the bar, smiling back at a guy who is laughing. He leans over, brings a hand up, and kisses him. 

Ian fills a thick sigh rush out. This isn’t a casual kiss. It isn’t even the cheek kiss some of the guys insist on doing here. It’s real. It’s a kiss that says “Hey, I missed you.”

Sure enough, Tom gestures with his head and the guy is rising from his stool and heading Ian’s way. He sits up straighter on his stool, leaning back to greet him. 

“Ben, this is Ian,” Tom shout-says over the music. “Ian, this is Ben.” 

Ben offers his hand warmly. “Nice to meet you.” 

Ian shakes it. “You too.” 

Tom leans in, smiling. “Ian, Ben’s my boyfriend.” Ian smiles and nods like he knows he’s supposed to. There’s nothing to say about it, but Tom keeps going. “ _Live together_ boyfriend.” 

Ian shifts in his seat and glances at Ben. “Oh,” he stammers. “Okay, cool.” 

Tom catches someone motioning him from the other end of the bar. “Just a sec,” he says. “Just. Wait a sec.” 

Ian rubs his hands together and watches Tom walk away. He swallows. He has no idea what to say. He–

“That was awkward,” Ben says, laughing. “I told him it’d be awkward. Look, he didn’t even get you a drink or anything.” 

Ian huffs out a laugh. He’s nervous. Please don’t let this be what he thinks it is. Please. Those days are done. Done, done. 

“I have a feeling he didn’t tell you why he wanted you to come,” Ben says carefully. 

Ian shakes his head and starts to stand up. “Look, man, I don’t mean to be a buzzkill, but I don’t–” 

Ben’s hand falls on his arm. “Wait,” he says. “Let’s just back up. Sit down.” 

“You seem really great, it’s just, I don’t want to–” 

“It’s bipolar,” Ben blurts. 

Ian’s eyes go wide and then relax. He sits. He takes a deep breath. “What do you mean?” 

“I just, I have some questions about bipolar and I don’t know anyone who is. Tom said you might be open to, you know, talking about it?” He plays with the label on his beer. “Said you were in rough shape for a while but bounced back.” 

Ian breathes deeply as his hand runs through his hair. “I guess.” He eyes Tom, pouring drinks and sneaking glances their way. “How much did he tell you? Jesus.” 

Ben shrugs. “Some stuff. Sorry. Sorry if that’s weird. He was just trying to make me feel better.” 

Ian sizes him up. "So you’re…”

“Yeah,” Ben says, eyes dropping, fingers sliding against the bar. “Yeah, just got diagnosed a few weeks ago.” 

Ian nods. He feels himself softening, his shoulders dropping, settling more fully into his seat. At the same time, he can’t find his words. He can’t stop thinking of one of those times with Tom, fucking him hot and messy in the bathroom, high on hypomania and cocaine. Things he doesn’t always want to think about, here. How much did he tell this guy? He feels awkward and shy. He’s always like that, now. Bravado just won’t come without effort. Words won’t come. Nothing but this. “Doing okay?” 

Ben shrugs. “I don’t know. Medicine doesn’t seem like it’s working.” 

Ian nods. “Gotta give it some time. Stabilizers so far?” 

“Lamictal, yeah.” 

Ian nods again. “Shaky?” Ben holds up a hand, and it is, just a little. “It’ll get better,” he says. “It takes time.” 

Tom comes back over, pops the cap off a beer. “Sorry, Ian, I didn’t even get you anything.” He passes the beer over, but Ian gently and apologetically pushes it back. 

“Can’t really drink,” he says. “On too much medicine.” 

Ben perks up. “Shit. I didn’t know that.” He plays with his beer bottle. “She asked me about it, but I didn’t know I had to stop.” 

Ian passes the beer over. “It depends,” he says. “It just doesn’t work for me. Reacts bad with my stuff. I’m on a lot of stuff. Better if I don’t. I mean, I have one or two sometimes, but not often. Giving up pot's been way harder. Sometimes you realize how much you been self-medicating and once you get out of the habit it doesn’t really bother you anymore."

"Makes sense" Ben nods. “Okay,” he says. He cautiously brings the bottle to his lips. 

“Hey, Ian,” Tom begins. “I know this is probably weird. I just didn’t know who else to talk to. When he went in, I just didn’t know what to do. He-”

“Okay, okay,” Ben says. “Let’s spare him the gory details.” He chuckles nervously. “He just thought it might be better if I talk to you. I guess I’ve been feeling a little weird. Not like myself.” 

“It’s hard,” Ian says. “It is. Takes time. You feel changed at all? Anything feel better? Or is it feeling fuzzy or something?"

"Tom says I seem better, but I’m not sure. I don’t feel okay really. I can’t tell what’s real. Like, with me.” 

“I know,” Ian says, quietly, not shout-talking. He leans back over. “It does get easier,” he says. “It might get shittier for a while, not gonna lie. But then it can get better. It's hard. This is the worst part. It can just last a while."

Tom reaches out for Ben’s hand. “Told you, B. He’s a good one.” 

Ben nudges Tom’s hand around. “He is.” 

Ian’s face relaxes. “Thanks. I’m happy to help out. I mean, everyone’s different, but we have a similar problem. We all kind of–” 

Ian gets distracted by a figure walking toward the bar. A man. He squints. No. 

"You okay?" Ben asks.

Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy _shit._

Ben turns around on his stool, trying to follow Ian’s eyes. "What?" 

“Holy shit. Fuck.” 

He’s in a black dress shirt, collar gone askew, unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up. The lights swing down on him, and when a purple one finds him, Ian swears it looks like his skin is glowing. 

“Who’s _that?_ ” Tom purrs. 

“It’s,” Ian says. “It’s…” 

Mickey walks toward the bar, seemingly oblivious to all the wandering eyes around him. “Quick,” Tom says. “Tell me.” 

“He’s this guy from work. Mickey. I kind of–” 

“Really? Nice.” 

“No, no,” Ian says, “Wait, Tom, no.” 

But Tom is already walking toward Mickey. Mickey shouts something and Tom starts filling a shot glass with whiskey. He says something to him, something Ian can’t quite make out, but Tom smiles, and Mickey smiles back. 

Fuck. Fuck. What. The fuck. 

“Cute,” Ben says, knocking Ian hard enough that Ian’s elbow slips a bit on the bar. 

Ian clenches his teeth, tries to keep from screaming, running away, adrenaline coursing through him. “We haven’t,” he says. “I don’t even think he’s–” 

“Well, he’s here, isn’t he? Dressed up even?” 

Then. Then, the worst. Then Tom gestures with his head, and then Mickey’s head is turned his way, and then Ian doesn’t move his head away, and then their eyes meet, and then– 

Mickey drops a couple bills on the bar and sets down the shot glass. He gives Ian one last look and begins to disappear into the crowd. 

Ian shoots out of his chair, catching Ben’s elbow and releasing it. He doesn’t know what he’ll say when he reaches Mickey, but he is careful to crane his neck and follow the top of Mickey’s head. Mickey skirts along the edge of the dance floor and heads further into the dark just beyond, the large alcove, slowing down, looking over his shoulder. 

Ian pushes past a few guys and his fingertips barely touch Mickey’s back before he turns, hand pushing out toward Ian’s chest, fast reflex, snapping forward. “Don’t touch me.” 

Ian pauses as he says it. Mickey said it fast. Fast enough that maybe he didn’t even know who touched him. But here they are, standing close. Mickey’s tongue slides against the inside of his cheek, head turning side to side, eyes barely meeting his. 

“Look,” Mickey says. “I’m here to pick up my sister. Called me wasted off her ass. Likes coming here so guys won’t fuck with her.” 

Ian nods. “I was just here to see an old friend. He texted and wanted me to–” 

“I don’t care,” Mickey spits. He opens his mouth and closes it. “I mean, I–you don’t owe me some explanation. I’m not here for anything except my sister, man.” 

Ian shifts his feet. He wants to fall into the floor. “What’s she look like? I can help you look.” 

“Nevermind,” Mickey says. “I don’t think she’s still here anyway. Gonna check the other place she goes.” It is barely out of his mouth before he’s starting to hustle his way to the door. 

“Do you want help? I have a car. I could–”

“Look,” Mickey says, turning around. “I’m just tired. I don’t want to be here. I’ll be fine. Just go.” 

Ian nods. God, does he want to disappear. God, does he want to grab Mickey’s arm, turn him around, say _I don’t believe you_ and kiss him hard on the mouth. Pull him back into the dark, press him against the wall, yank the dress shirt out of his jeans, slide his rough fingernails up along his back.

“Okay,” he says, but Mickey is already moving, already leaving, and he doesn’t look back. 

*

There isn’t enough coffee in the world to wake him up this morning. He kicks himself for staying up too late. He doesn’t like to admit it, but he just can’t stay out late anymore. It’s part of his treatment, getting enough sleep and sticking to his routine. Going to a club to see an old...something and his newly-diagnosed bipolar boyfriend isn’t part of his routine. Going to said club and seeing his hot (presumed straight) coworker isn’t part of his routine, either. 

_Come on_ he keeps telling himself. _Come on. He was dressed up in a gay club and only got spooked when he found out you were there._

It doesn’t matter. Doesn’t matter, whatever it was. Mickey didn’t like seeing him there. For whatever reason. But Ian isn’t in the closet. Not at all. It’s not something he tells people, but he certainly doesn’t deny it either. Doesn’t hide it. 

He’s glad to get some room. Glad that Mickey can get some space. He’s back at Bowman today, submitting his most recent forms for processing. He’ll be working on some smaller jobs the next few days while the roof gets put on at Emerald. 

Hayley snaps her fingers at him. “Ian. Earth to Ian.” 

Ian jerks his head up from his coffee. “Sorry. Yeah?” 

“Two A/Cs out southside.” 

“Kay.” He grabs his board and brings his forms to Hayley’s desk. She stamps them and clicks around on the computer. 

She gestures her head toward the coffee pot. “Fill up again. Talk to me. I miss you. How’s it going at the site?” 

Ian shrugs. “Good, I think. It’s gonna be awesome when it’s all cleaned up. Just a lot of work.” 

“Anyone I know working?” 

Ian shakes his head no. “Don’t think so. Mickey MIlkovich? Sully–” 

“Holy shit,” Hayley whispers. “Mickey MIlkovich?” 

Ian pulls his head back. “Yeah, what?” 

“You grew up _southside_ and you don’t know who the Milkoviches are?” 

“I don’t- think so? I mean, the name is really familiar, but I don’t–” 

Hayley pushes her chair back. “Jesus. Hey, Jenny? Can you answer phones while I go smoke? Apparently I have to take Ian Gallagher to school.”

* 

Idiot. Ian can’t believe it. They grew up far enough away that they weren’t neighbors, but still. Still. Still, when Hayley told him about Terry Milkovich, it was like his brain imploded. He started putting together stories. That Terry. What the fuck is wrong with him? How could he forget those stories? Not hear those stories? 

Why didn’t he know Mickey? Why did Mickey not know him? 

He puts his phone on speaker and hits the button as he pulls away from the stoplight. 

It rings twice before he picks up. “Hey,” Ian says. “Am I supposed to know the Milkoviches?”

Almost immediately Lip responds. “Supposed to? Yes. C’mon, you know them.” 

“I don’t remember them. How’s that possible?” 

“I don’t fuckin know, Ian. Obsessed with ROTC? Symptoms of poor mental health? Busy getting your dick sucked by a pedophile? You were a little busy back then.” 

“Fuck you,” Ian says, groaning. “I’m serious.” 

“So am I!” Lip says, and Ian can hear his smile just before he hears the flick of the lighter. “Frank must have been bashed up by Terry fifty times. All the kids were runners or something but it wasn't really clear what schemes they were running. They were way on the other side, but still.

Ian is quiet. He glances at his board quickly before merging lanes. Should be getting close. “One of the kids is named Mickey. Do you know him?” 

Lip blows the smoke out. “Sure. Why?” 

“I’m,” he begins. “I’m working for him. Not for-him for-him, but working under him.” 

“Under him, huh?” 

“Shut up. On this restoration. Do you remember those old buildings on Emerald near the old bowling alley?” 

“I can’t remember. Frank never took us bowling.” 

“No, I know,” he says. “But Monica did, sometimes. Do you remember? With the crooked lanes and the popcorn machine?” 

“Nope.” 

“Oh,” Ian says. He can’t tell if Lip doesn’t know or if he’s pretending he doesn’t. “Anyway, it’s over there. Old four-unit in one of the brownstones. Knock out to make it a residence. It’s gonna be cool.” 

“Woah,” Lip says. “And you’re still doing the other job?” 

“Kind of,” Ian says. “My boss is, well, it’s a long story logistics-wise, but yeah.” 

“Damn, man. You holding up okay?” The implications crystalize, and Ian counts pills in his head. 

“Yeah, I’m okay. Doing okay.” 

“Good.” 

Ian turns left and sees the house he’s looking for. “Just got to the job,” he says. 

“Okay,” Lip says. “Have fun under Mickey Milkovich. Don’t let him stab you. Unless, you know, he’s stabbing you with his–” 

“Got it,” Ian says. “Enough. Goodbye.” 

Ian drops his phone on the seat. He laughs lightly. He looks down at his clipboard. he has enough time. He needs to get to the other two houses, but he has to see this one first. 

Ian sighs as he turns to find him. Mickey’s arms flex as he picks up some lumber and walks it into the house. Ian licks his lips, swallows against his dry throat. Just open the door. Just open the door. Just open it. 

He sighs and opens the door. He leans against the van. Mickey comes back out of the house, heads down the stairs and is about to turn the corner when his eyes catch him. He freezes. 

“Hey,” Ian says. 

“Hey.” 

They don’t break eye contact. “I’m going over to other spots the next few days, but–” 

“Yeah, I heard.” 

Ian looks down at his feet. Fuck this is awkward. He takes a deep breath. “I just wanted to–I guess I wanted to come by. Like, just make sure your sister got home okay?” 

When he raises his head, Mickey looks away. “Yeah,” he says. “I found her at the other place.” 

Ian nods and kicks his toe against the grass. “Cool.” 

Mickey nods. “Well, I’m busy, so.” 

Ian nods again. “Sorry.” He tries to pull the tension out of his face, but it’s there. Stupid. He heads around the back of his van and opens the door. Stupid. 

He’s sliding into the seat when Mickey grabs at the window. “Wait.” 

Ian feels his mouth open, just slightly. Wait. 

Mickey’s pulls something out of his pocket. Ian’s flashlight. “I’m sorry,” Mickey says. He passes it over. 

“Thanks,” Ian says. “It’s fine.” 

“No,” Mickey says. “No, I mean I’m sorry about, like, last night, I was just–” 

He doesn’t say anything else. Ian nods. “It’s fine.” 

Mickey leans closer, licks his lips. He drops his voice lower. “Look, I’m not gay, man. I was just looking for my sister. Guess I got weirded out. Weird to see you there. Like, see you with your–” 

There’s something in his face that makes Ian rush to clairify. “He's not my boyfriend or anything. He’s–” 

“It’s fine,” Mickey says. He raises a hand up. “Don’t need to talk about it. Just wanted to let you know. That I’m not.” 

Ian breathes deeply. “Okay,” he says. 

“Okay?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. "Okay." They stare at each other. Ian breaks the stare by reaching for his board. “Look, I have to get going.” 

“Sure,” Mickey says, pushing away from the door. “See ya.” 

He doesn’t wait for a response. He’s already walking away as Ian reaches to turn his keys. Ian watches Mickey walk away in his side mirror. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear.

 _Just wanted to let you know. That I’m not._

Ian eases the van away from the curb, two words slipping from his lips. They creep out in a whisper, soft but insistent. The memory of Mickey’s face, his shifting eyes, purple lights and shirt sleeves rolled up. There’s a feeling deep inside his stomach, somewhere so still it will never be shaken. 

_Just wanted to let you know. That I’m not._

Only two words come to him, come from him, said to the ghost of Mickey’s face behind his eyes. Two words he lets flow behind him like exhaust and the smell of gasoline. Two words.

_You're lying._


	3. Doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Doors open and close.

Two weeks. It’s been two weeks. The radiator in Ian’s apartment is finally off, and the nights are heating up. He lays back on his bed after work. Stares at that discolored patch on his ceiling. 

Two weeks back at Bowman. Two weeks driving around the city to fix a/c in houses, meeting frazzled moms at the door, kids poking out to see what he looks like. Two weeks driving to the other side of the city to give estimates to homebuilders about flex ducts versus rigid metal ducts. Two weeks away from Emerald. Two weeks away from Mickey. 

But tomorrow will be different. Tomorrow he’s back. Sully told him about the rest of the demo. Roof’s done. Carpenter started up. Framing is starting already. All the doors were taken off and are leaning against the fireplace. Kowalski wants to keep them. They are tall and slim and odd-looking, but beautiful in that way you can’t quite explain. 

“Mickey was asking about you,” Sully says from the kitchen, popping the cap off a beer. 

“Oh yeah?” Ian sits up. 

“Yeah,” Sully says. “Guess he thought you were comin’ back earlier than this.” 

Ian slides his legs off the side of the bed. “So did I.” He stands, stretches, makes his way to his kitchen table. “Feel like I’m gonna be way behind.” 

Sully pulls out some playing cards and tosses them on the table. “Nah,” he says. “You’ll like the upstairs. Layout is great.” 

Ian starts to shuffle the cards. He didn’t start playing real card games until one of his hospital stays. The second one. The short one. The one where he got so panicked and paranoid that he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t sleep. Weekend. Doctor’s office closed. He showed up at the hospital, pleading, crying, eagerly swallowing the meds, relieved to have them drag him down to sleep. The hospital where his limbs felt heavy and the words wouldn't come, but his mind felt more quiet. He knows how that feels, now. That relief. He knows he needed that, sometimes, even now. That hospital stay wasn’t like the first time. He hopes there won’t be a third time. 

The second time in the hospital, he walked up to a table where a man was playing solitaire. When he sat down, the man scooped up the cards, shuffled them quickly, and said “Gin?” Ian didn’t know what he meant. His brain couldn’t hold it. “Gin Rummy?” The man said. Ian nodded his head even though he had no idea how to play. 

Now he knows how to play. He knows the rules. He knows his brain needs something like this. Orderly. Sometimes he needs to feel his brain work a certain way, needs to talk about something specific, needs to just let his mind relax and hands move. Work does that, sometimes. It’s what he likes most about it when he’s working alone. Working with a crew can be harder. Distracting. 

Distracting is the perfect word for Mickey. 

“You gonna deal or what?” 

Ian laughs. “Sorry. Thinking.” He takes the glass of water Sully offers him. “Thanks.” 

They fall into the game easily. Sully likes playing cards, and they are pretty evenly matched. A pizza comes and they pause to eat it. 

Should he ask? Of course he should. It’s Sully. ‘What do you think about Mickey?” 

Sully swipes a napkin against his lips. “Think about like what?” 

“Like,” Ian finishes chewing, swallows. “Like as a person. How would you describe him as a person.” 

Sully shrugs and drinks his beer. “I don’t know, man. A hardass? One of the roofers was fucking around and Mickey chewed him out so hard I thought he was gonna kill him.” 

“Jesus,” Ian says. “Really?” 

“Yeah,” Sully says. “Like a day or two after you quit comin’ around.” 

Ian sets the crust on his plate. “What do you think of him otherwise? Like not as a foreman.” 

Sully looks at Ian, then starts to smile. “No way,” he says. “You fucking like him.” 

Ian picks the crust up. “Ah, no.” 

“You do,” Sully says, chewing with his mouth open. “You wanna fuck that guy.” 

Ian laughs and drops the crust again. “Oh come on, not like it matters.”

Sully squints. “I don’t know,” he says. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s down for the d.” 

Ian shakes his head, incredulous. “Down for the d? Do you hear yourself right now?” 

Sully shrugs, big smile as he takes a bite. “I mean, he definitely has that ‘no homo’ vibe about him. I never trust that ‘no homo’ vibe. Just be a homo. No one cares.” 

Ian shakes his head again. “No one _cares_? You know who his dad is, right?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “Well, I mean, I know who he _was_.” 

“He’s dead?” 

“Yeah,” Sully says. “Shanked in jail.” 

“Huh,” Ian says. 

Sully balls up his napkin and wipes his hands on his jeans. “Are we gonna keep playing or do you want to talk about boys some more?” 

* 

He isn’t there when Ian arrives on the site. Ian grabs his board and heads in to talk to the framers. 

The change is already remarkable. He walks over to see the plans, spread out on a piece of plywood laid over some sawhorses. Ian can recognize the style from another job he did. Something almost like a craftsman in places, but grander. Taller. Man, the kitchen is going to be huge. One of those long ones with a long range, granite everywhere and tall, carefully crafted cabinetry. He carefully moves to the second page to see the upstairs detail. 

“You wanna see it all you had to do is ask.” 

Ian turns, smiling. “Hey.” 

Mickey smiles back. “Hey.” 

They stand there, shifting feet. Ian opens his mouth without much of a plan. Can’t play it cool. Never can. “Sully said upstairs is looking good."

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Turnin’ out good. Come up. Think you’ll be able to get started marking your ducts.” 

“Sweet,” Ian says. “Okay, let me take a look.” 

He follows Mickey up the stairs, lets his eyes trail over him. Mickey doesn’t linger at the top this time. He heads toward the back, stepping into the framed doorway, framed in that strange tall shape. “This is the master,” he says. “Bathroom’s over there.” He taps alongside a window frame. “We’re openin’ this up again where they walled it off.” 

Ian nods, trying to keep his eyes on the brick, the wood, the old lead pipes that need to be ripped out. He looks up. 

“Whaddya think?” Mickey asks. 

Ian points. “Where are your vents? I’m gonna do rigid and go to flex over the vents, but I don’t want to flex more than 7 feet. Some do 10 feet, but that’s too much, I think.” 

Mickey has the smallest smile as he says it. “Good,” he says. “I like that. ‘S good.” 

Ian tears his eyes away and looks back at the framed ceiling. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, let me take a look at the plans with you and we can figure out what I need.” 

*  
Hayley twists in her seat to find him as he walks in. “What are you doing here? Thought you were at Emerald.” 

“I am,” Ian says, pouring coffee into his travel mug. “I was hoping I could get Don’s approval on a cost sheet. He here?” 

“Sorry,” she says. “No. Should I get him on the phone for ya?” 

“Please,” Ian says. 

He’s happy it isn’t awkward with Mickey, so far. He’s been practicing things to do if it is, which seems stupid when he thinks about it, but it’s something for his brain to do. He makes a couple calls and gets some forms together. 

“Hey Ian,” Hayley calls out. “Don said to use the card and he’ll approve it all later.” 

“Cool,” Ian says, putting his keys back in his pocket. “Thanks.” 

“I’ll walk you outside,” Hayley says, pulling out an envelope with the card Ian needs. “Hey, if you have the o.k. to use his very special credit card you should take me to lunch.” She gives it to him and walks him to the elevator. “So how’s it going over there?” 

Ian takes a big breath and lets it out. “Good,” he says. “Finally really getting started on ducts. Getting ready to mark up.” 

“How’s Mickey?” 

“He’s...good? Why?” 

Hayley gives him a strange look. Not her, too. Jesus. He has no chill. “You guys get along?” 

Ian shrugs. “I guess so?” 

The elevator opens and Hayley takes out her cigarettes as they walk to the front door. “Interesting.” 

“What?” 

Hayley give him a sideways glance as she lights her cigarette. “Just curious if he took a shine to you.” 

Ian chuckles at her choice of words. “Took a shine? Are you 80?” 

Hayley shoves at him. “It’s just, he can be really hard to work for, I hear. Makes sense. Growing up he was rough as shit.” 

“No,” Ian says. “No, he’s really good. He might be a hardass, but he knows exactly what he’s doing.” 

Hayley gives him a look. “I bet.” 

Ian reaches for her cigarette. He doesn’t smoke often, but has always taken a drag from her. “What are you saying?” He exhales. 

Hayley smiles. “Just saying I heard a rumor, once,” she says. “Growing up. Couldn’t have been true though. He fucked a lot of girls.” 

_Just wanted to let you know. That I’m not._

Ian takes another drag before he passes it back. Play it cool. Play it cool. “Eh,” he says. “I don’t know.”

Hayley gives a slow grin. “Well, well, well.” 

Ian groans. “Shut up.” He gives her a gentle kick in the leg. “I’m gonna go.” 

*

As he leaves Home Depot, the sky grows darker. It wasn’t supposed to rain today. Weather said not until Thursday.

By the time he gets to the house, it’s starting to drizzle. Mickey is out front, talking to a few of the guys, but because the work is all inside, it’s not so bad. Mickey sees Ian pull up. 

“Need help?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says, sliding the door open. He has his metal sheeting and his flex and doesn’t want it wet. Mickey and a couple of the guys help him bring it all in. 

In time, Ian has his lines marked and starts plotting things out. Mickey approves it and calls Kowalski. Mickey sends a few photos and then Ian’s measuring out his sheeting. 

It’s raining hard. Mickey let the framers go when they got to a stopping point. Ian can hear Mickey moving around downstairs. He gets on the stepstool and measures out the vent, making notes on his plan. 

“You start cuttin’ yet?” Mickey calls up. His voice is warm and startling. Ian freezes, ears cocked. 

“Not yet,” he says back. He looks at the doorframe where the door once was. He heard one of the framers grouching before the carpenter told them how rare they are, those doors. Worth the effort, the measuring and measuring and measuring. Worth the wait. 

Outside the rain falls, thunder, even. Ian watches it trail down the window, broken glass covered with plastic. There’s a crack of lightning before the thunder rumbling. Ian feels like he can touch it with his fingertips. 

“Let’s pack it in,” Mickey shouts. There’s a long pause. Ian is about to speak when Mickey shouts again. “Let’s go grab a beer.” 

*

It’s nearby. A dark, cozy place with red booths. They settle in, not quite looking at each other. Ian is about to speak, but Mickey’s phone buzzes. 

“Fuck, sorry,” Mickey says. “She keeps calling.” 

She keeps calling. She.

Ian says “Ok,” but Mickey is already picking up. 

“What,” he says into the phone. Ian can hear a woman’s voice on the other end, loud and angry. Mickey searches Ian’s face while she speaks, but when he returns to the call his eyes drop. “Mandy–” he starts. “Mandy, listen–” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “Look, just put a fucking garbage can under it. ‘S not like I can fix it while it’s pouring anyhow .” He gestures at the bar, mouths _go ahead_.

Mandy. Okay. Mandy. Ian sighs as he drops bills down at the bar and heads over with two glasses. Fuck his rules. He’s going to have a beer, be a person, take his nervous edge off. 

Mickey is still on the phone, face slack. “I–” he says. “Just–” He rolls his eyes when Ian sits down. “Just don’t touch it, okay? I’ll be back in a little while. Just leave it. Okay. Okay. Yeah, bye.” 

Ian takes a sip of his beer. Mickey grabs for his and downs a third of it. “Sorry about that,” he says, setting his phone on the table. He doesn’t volunteer any information about who Mandy is. Doesn’t mention the call at all. 

Ian stares at Mickey’s phone and takes another drink. His nervous tendency to fill the silence takes over. “How’d you get started with all this?” 

Mickey searches Ian’s face. “How’d I get started with what.” 

“Construction.” 

“After juvie,” Mickey says. “Needed a job for my probation. My dad had to threaten this guy from high school to get me a job tarrin’ roofs. Kind of rolled from there.” He takes another drink. “You?” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. He decides to gloss over the finer details. The army. The attempt at stealing the helicopter, the mania. “I...I dropped out of high school.” It’s true. “Then I started apprenticing with this electrician I met. Taught me to how to re-wire stuff.” He’ll leave out the detail of where he met the electrician, of course. 

Mickey nods. He drops his eyes and picks at his cardboard coaster. “You’re good at it,” he grunts. “Met a lot of guys, but feel like you’re the best one I seen in a while.” 

Ian tries to fight the wideness of his smile, but he can feel himself failing. “I’ve barely even done anything yet.” 

“I know,” Mickey says, looking up. “I can just tell, though. The way you think about it. Type of questions you ask. Tell that you can see it. How you want it to be.” 

Ian looks at him, smiling, shy. “Thanks, man.” 

“Sure.” 

It’s quiet. Mickey doesn’t seem eager to fill the silence. Ian wants to bring up the last time they saw each other. Bring up the awkwardness. Mickey’s claim. He knows he’d just make it worse. 

Fuck it. 

Ian takes a long pull of his beer. “So who’s Mandy? Girlfriend?” 

“Heh,” Mickey says, looking down into his beer. “Naw, man. Mandy’s my sister. Live together.” 

“Ah,” Ian says. “So that’s the one you were looking for that night?” 

Mickey jerks his head up. “What?” 

Ian leans forward. “In the club? You know. Looking for your sister?” 

“No, I know,” Mickey says. 

They stare at each other. 

“What about your girlfriend? How’d you meet her?” 

Mickey knocks back the last of his beer. “Don’t do girlfriends.” He focuses on his empty pint glass, twisting it around with his fingers at the base. 

Ian looks at Mickey’s fingers, those pale fingers, the ink there, the way he turns the glass around, the way Mickey’s face turns way when Ian pulls his head up. “I don’t do girlfriends either,” Ian says, the weight of his words like stones in his mouth. “I’m not the girlfriend type.” 

Mickey’s head snaps back, finds Ian’s eyes. He doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. It’s right there.

Right. 

There. 

Holy. Shit. 

Mickey is the first to speak. “Another one?” 

“Sure,” Ian says. “Be right back.” 

The bathroom is at the end of the hallway, and the door is heavier than it looks. His hands meet the sink as it closes behind him. He breathes deeply. He looks up, meets his eyes in the mirror. Fuck. Fuck. He has to slow down. Fuck. He feels a steady fire stirring inside him. He whispers “stop.” 

But it’s too fast. His body’s reaction is so fast. Too fast. When it comes to Mickey–thinking of Mickey like this– his body cascades in a series of reactions that don’t stop until he is a sighing, groaning mess. He presses his hand against himself, tries to will it away. Thinking of Mickey. Like this. Like that. That desire to meet his skin again and again. He wants and wants, and he might even have a shot. He might even have a chance. Does he? _Did he mean it like that?_ He doesn’t want to guess. He needs to slow his mind down. 

He tries to stop the image in his mind when he closes his eyes. Maybe that beer was a mistake. He drank it fast. He knows his limit, now, and how quickly his mind relaxes into thoughts like this. It’s not bad, not necessarily, and he’s not drunk. It’s just enough to slip that awkwardness and worry over to the side. Just enough to dissolve the part of him that second-guesses his desire for another person. For Mickey. His body. Mickey’s body. Ian’s breath. Mickey’s mouth. Longing. 

Ian sighs heavily. Fuck it. He just needs to hurry up and get off and get it over with. He opens a stall and goes inside. He rests his head on the back of the door and unzips his pants. He lets out a whispered sigh as his hand falls against himself. Eyes closed, mouth open. He knows he should be quick. _Hurry up._ Okay. Okay. He’s about to tighten his grip when the bathroom door bangs open. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. “You in here?” 

Ian’s eyes fly open. “Um,” he breathes. “Yeah. Just–” He swallows. “I’ll be out in a minute.” 

He hears Mickey chuckle, can picture his face perfectly. “You jerking off in there, Gallagher?” 

“Um,” Ian says, before he can stop himself. He starts shoving himself back into his pants. He cringes when the sound of his belt buckle announces itself. He breathes out hard, then holds his breath. 

Mickey starts walking closer. Ian can see the flash of his skin meet the space around the stall door. “I’ll be right out,” Ian says. “I’m just–” 

“Open the door,” Mickey says, so low Ian can barely hear it. 

Ian freezes. He can’t breathe. 

“Open it,” Mickey says. 

Ian watches his hand reach out, watches his fingers slide the latch back, watches his hand pull the door open. Mickey’s there, breathing hard, sliding his eyes up Ian’s body, gaze stumbling over the visible bulge in his jeans, higher and higher until he finds his eyes. 

“Mick–” Ian begins. 

Mickey moves quickly. He shoves Ian back so hard he has to grab for the top of the wall so he won’t fall in the toilet. One of Mickey’s hands is firm on his chest as he reaches over and shoves the door shut, sliding the latch again with one hand. His eyes grab onto Ian’s. His hands grip tight against Ian’s shoulders, pushing him hard against the wall. 

“Tell me what you were doing in here,” Mickey says. His voice is stern, almost combative. But he’s breathing so hard. His fingers clench harder against Ian’s shoulders. 

Ian feels his hands, one at a time, slowly reaching for Mickey. He’s going for it. He knows what he wants. He hopes he’s right about what Mickey wants. But if there’s going to be a punch, he’s going to ready for that too. 

There’s a freedom in that. Nothing to lose. Nothing he hasn’t lost before, anyway. Mickey tries to bend back, away from him, but his eyes are soft and there is a tiny noise when Ian’s hands settle on his hips.

“Tell me,” Mickey says, low. Ian grips onto him tighter, watching Mickey’s eyes drop down. 

Ian's voice is rough and hopeful. “I was thinking about fucking you.” 

It happens so fast. Mickey crashes his lips against Ian’s, and even though Ian felt it coming, even though he imagined it a million times, he never imagined it happening like this. He gasps at how quickly Mickey starts pulling him apart, sighing into his mouth, hands lifting off Ian’s chest to cup his face, the back of his neck. Ian pulls away with a moan as Mickey starts to back up against the wall. He pushes Mickey back the rest of the way and mouths at his neck as Mickey reveals it. 

“Fuck,” Mickey says, breathless, hand sliding into Ian’s hair. Ian’s tongue slides up his neck, a little drag of lips, of teeth, moving Mickey’s head to the side, groaning, sucking below his ear before Mickey pushes him back, just a little. “Careful,” he whispers, fingertips dragging against his hair. 

Ian’s hands pull against Mickey’s back, pulling him closer, meeting his mouth again. Mickey kisses him hungrily. It’s so perfect. Fuck. Fuck. Ian pulls him tighter, his hand sliding up to hold Mickey’s neck, hold him close. Ian can feel Mickey against him, hard and ready. Ian lets his hands drop to his ass, pulling him close and closer, watching Mickey as his lips release and a bitten moan escapes. Ian shoves his hand beneath his shirt, letting his fingertips drag against him as his head begins to drop, pulling here and there and there again. Mickey groans as Ian’s head moves lower. 

It’s not like he’s never been on his knees in a bathroom stall before. But it doesn’t bother him, not this time. He yanks at Mickey’s belt, enjoying the way Mickey’s body droops down, knees give, the sound of his breathing, his expectant whine. He pushes Mickey’s pants down, freeing him, taking him hard and leaking in his hand, licking his lips, tongue soft as he slides against him, welcomes him in. 

“Holy shit,” Mickey breathes. “Oh fuck. Yeah.” His hand finds Ian's head again, loosely dragging his fingertips through his hair. 

God he tastes good. God this is good. This is the smooth slide of skin in his mouth, the deep smell of him, the tenderness of Mickey’s fingers in his hair. Ian hums. He can hear a sound rising from deep in Mickey’s throat. His eyes meet Mickey’s. Their sounds blur together, alive. Ian increases the pressure, feels Mickey’s knees shake against his chest, hears Mickey’s breath hitching, speeding up. 

Ian pulls off, working him slowly with his hand. “Want you to come in my mouth," he says, voice low. “That okay?” 

Mickey throws his head back against the wall and nods wildly. His mouth opens wide, but no sound comes out. 

Ian slides back down, bringing him deep into his mouth, changing the rhythm. Mickey shakes hard. He clamps his mouth shut. He tries to rock forward but Ian presses his hips back against the wall. 

_Fuck._ Ian looks up at Mickey, skin flushed, breath speeding up as they make eye contact. Ian's long fingers reach and glide around his hips, the softest scratch, meeting Mickey's ass. Pulling, reaching further.

Mickey whispers something that sounds like _please_ as his mouth drops open, shaky breath, closes his mouth again. He drops his head, a slow groan as he begins to tense. Ian drops deeper, open for him, ready.

Mickey lets go, jaw open, eyes opening wide, his breath a deep, wet gasp. Shaking hard, breathing hard. Ian closes his eyes, breathes deeply through his nose as Mickey stills. Ian sucks gently one last time before he pulls off, slowly rises to his feet. Mickey’s eyes bounce back and forth against his. They stare long and hard at each other until their breath slows down. 

“Okay?” Ian says, smiling, swallowing again. Teasing. But something in Mickey’s face makes the smile drop. Mickey’s eyes shift around. He steps back a little bit in the tiny stall, almost like he’s trying to get away. “Mick? What’s–”

Mickey nods. Swallows. “I’m–” he begins, pulling his pants up slowly, lip catching quickly in his teeth. “I’m not out, or whatever."

Ian nods. “I know.” 

Mickey’s eyes dart away. “An’ I haven’t really, you know.” His eyes dart back. “Done a whole lot.” 

Ian’s lips part as he realizes what Mickey means. He gives a small, soft nod. “Oh. Okay,” he says. He clears his throat. “Is it–” he clears his throat again. “Like, is it okay that this happened? You’re okay?” 

Mickey nods fast. “Yeah.” He looks away. Looks back, deep in his eyes. “Yeah.” He lets out a breath. He shuffles his feet, shrugs just a little as he looks away again. His eyes come back to rest against Ian’s zipper, his straining cock. “Wanna get you back, but I’ve never really...I mean, I’m not good at anything like this.” 

Ian shifts from foot to foot. “You don’t have to do anything. It's fine." Mickey squirms. “You don’t,” Ian says again. Mickey chews his lip and drops his eyes. 

“Said I wanted to get you back,” Mickey says, voice low, insistent. His hand slides down Ian’s body, voice pointed, softly sarcastic, but breathy. “Think I know how to jerk a cock.” His hand pauses at his crotch, squeezing enough that Ian’s eyes close. “Get it out." 

Ian’s fingers drop fast, yank and pull at his pants. Mickey shoves his hand down, impatient, meeting Ian’s fingers as they try to move the fabric out of the way. 

Mickey’s breath is hot as his fingers fall against him. His lips drop to Ian’s neck, whispering “Jesus Christ, Ian” as his hand spreads, measuring him out, exploring the length and width, his leaking slit, his balls. Ian nods fast. Mickey pulls his hand back, spits in his palm and slides his hand against him. Slow at first, twisting, teasing. Ian bites his lip, then gasps hard as Mickey changes his grip. “There you go,” Mickey says, gravel voice, deep. “Yeah, that's it."

Ian raises a hand to Mickey’s back, lets his head fall against a shoulder. He starts to thrust harder into Mickey’s hand as he increases pressure. “Like that,” he whispers. “Just like that.” 

It doesn’t take long. He’s been keyed up for so long already. Mickey’s hand moves faster. He fights a moan. He can’t look at Mickey anymore. Everything is overwhelming. His arm reaches for Mickey’s forearm. “I’m–” 

“Go,” Mickey says. 

Ian does. His breath comes harder and harder as he looks down, sees Mickey’s hand moving. His tattoos promising fuck. Fuck. Fuck. He lets go, fast. He watches Mickey’s hand catch him, watches himself spill. Fuck. 

“Oh my god,” Ian breathes, reaching for toilet paper, trying to clean himself as best he can. He smiles, reaches for Mickey’s face, his lips, his neck, but Mickey suddenly jerks back, eyes racing against the bathroom wall. 

Ian pulls his hand back. Hurt. Confused. “What’s wrong?” 

Mickey opens his mouth to speak, but the bathroom door bangs open. Mickey jumps, panic in his eyes. Ian lifts a finger to his lips. He turns quietly and flushes the toilet. He points to the door. Mickey gives a shaky nod as he unlocks it. Ian hears him grunt a short “hey” to whoever is there. He hears the sink turn on and off. Door opening, closing. Opening, closing again. 

Ian's smile stretches wide across his face, even if the last part was awkward. He has the taste of Mickey in his mouth, and his lips feel swollen from his kiss. He washes his hands in the sink. He catches his eyes in the mirror, smiles again. 

He opens the door, walks down the little hall, eyes reaching for Mickey. But he’s not there. There’s just a glass of beer where Ian was sitting, and Mickey’s glass is empty.

*

No one is supposed to be at the site, but Ian goes by anyway. It’s the only place he’ll be. He’s been texting Mickey all morning. He couldn't help it. But he hasn’t heard anything back. He sees his truck outside. Sighs when he puts his van in park. 

He can hear Mickey upstairs. He climbs the stairs slowly, gathering his thoughts together, trying to calm the adrenaline coursing through his body. 

Mickey is in the master bedroom, marking the lead pipes, writing something on the plans. The muscles in his back strain against his t-shirt as he reaches here and there, pressing against the pipes. Ian fights the urge to run over, bury his lips in the space between his shoulder blades. 

“Hey,” Ian says, softly, not to startle him. 

Mickey turns his head but doesn’t stop what he’s doing. “Hey,” he says. 

“Can I–” 

Mickey turns back around, gives a short nod. 

Ian walks over, watches Mickey’s fingers slide against the pipe, hold it in that perfect grip of hard and soft. “So,” Ian begins. “Are you doing okay?”

Mickey nods. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Ian tries to catch his eyes, but Mickey is concentrating on his work. “I mean, like–” 

“No,” Mickey says, voice clipped and curt. “No, I know what you mean. I’m okay. It’s fine.” 

Ian shifts his feet. "Just wanted to make sure you're okay. You know. What happened?"

Mickey pauses, but doesn't turn. "Said I'm okay."

"Cause you left, and I-"

Mickey lets go of the pipe, turning, glaring at Ian. "Look. Said I was fine. Don't really wanna talk about it right now. I just had to go, that's all." 

Ian sets his jaw. "Fine," he says. "I get it. Nevermind." 

He's halfway down the stairs when Mickey says "Wait." 

He stops on the landing. If Mickey has something to say, he can come down and say it.

He does. Mickey walks downstairs, carefully, watching his feet. He bites his lip. "Just, wait a sec." 

"What."

"Told you I'm-" Mickey begins, looking at his feet, "I'm not good at this stuff."

Ian steps closer, jaw set, challenging, words bitter. "What stuff? _Gay_ stuff?"

Mickey huffs, takes a step back. "Fuck off, man. That doesn’t–I’m not–" 

Ian groans, interrupting. “Are you fucking kidding me? Oh my god, Mickey.” _I’m not._

“Wait,” Mickey says, grabbing at Ian’s arm as he begins to turn. “Just wait. That’s not–that’s not what I mean.” He drops Ian’s arm. “It’s just this stuff.” He gestures his hand back and forth between them. "I mean I’m not good at this stuff. Talkin about it. Told you I hadn't done a whole lot."

Ian is about to challenge him again before he catches Mickey's eyes. There is interest there, and beauty, and fear. "But you-" he says. "You like that stuff?"

"Yeah," Mickey says quietly, shrugging, looking at his feet. "Course. Just haven't done it this way. Before it’s been like, you know. Just, you know, alleys. Or bathrooms. Didn't know 'em. 'S all been like that. Not someone I had to see at work or nothin.'"

Ian feels confusion gripping his face. "But you said before you–like you said you hadn’t done a whole lot? But wait. So you," he begins. "So you've, like-"

Mickey groans, rubs his hands over his face. "Jesus Christ, Gallagher. Not that simple."

Ian wants to prod, understand what he means. He opens and closes his mouth. Stops, nods. "We can-" he fights the urge to reach for Mickey's hands. "We can just forget it. It’s fine to be a one off. Just wanted to know where you stand." 

"Here," Mickey says quietly. "Just standing here." He leans a tiny bit forward, eyes on his. If Ian didn’t know better, he would think Mickey is waiting to be kissed.

Ian nods. He looks away, sees dust layered on the windowsill. In his mind, he reaches out to clean it off. He looks back at Mickey. "We don't have to–I mean it’s not like we have to do anything else. So it doesn't have to be weird." 

Mickey's eyes dart back and forth. "Oh," he says roughly. "Okay. Sure."

Ian pauses. Fuck. Maybe he shut a door, now. A door Mickey won't want to open again. 

Might as well say it now if they're going to be done. "Why wouldn't you let me kiss you? After we were done, I mean." 

Mickey shakes his head. "I don't kiss."

Ian pauses. "But _you_ kissed _me_. You did.”

“I know.” 

Ian’s head tilts to the side, confused. “Why'd you do that then?” 

Mickey groans as his hand finds his face again. “I don't know, okay? I don’t. I said I'm not good at this stuff.” 

Ian can hear himself raising his voice, but he doesn’t care. He steps closer. “Oh really? Because for someone who says they're not good at this stuff, you sure seem to know what you're doing.” 

Mickey reaches his hands out and pushes Ian’s chest away. “Fuck you.” 

They breathe hard. The energy buzzes. “I just,” Ian says, quietly. “I just don’t understand.” 

“There’s nothing to understand,” Mickey says. His voice is tired and detached. “Just how it is.” 

Ian nods. Okay. So it’s this. Okay. 

“Do you want me to stay?” Ian asks, gesturing around the house. “Do you want me to do something while I’m here?”

Mickey shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. He meets Ian’s eyes. “No. Just go.” 

*  
Ian opens the front door, seething. He flops face-first on his bed, pressing his face into his pillow. His mind swims. So not only does Mickey not want him, he apparently has done...something. Maybe lots of somethings. How could he do things like that, the mysterious but probably simple things, with strangers, but not with him? Jealousy courses through him. Jealousy with no focal point, just a mean, scared and sharp pinball in his brain. He feels so stupid. 

He hears his phone buzz. He perks up, but falls when he sees the text. 

_Is it okay if I give Ben your number?_

Ian sighs. _Sure, whatever._

He tosses his phone back down on the bed. It sounds bitchy. He knows that. He should know better. Know how it feels to try and reach out. How much it takes to open up like that, scared to be shut down. How much you want someone to just believe you. He picks up the phone again. 

_Tell him to text whenever._ That’s better. _How’s it going?_

 _Okay I think. He had to go back in. He didn’t want to go to sleep this week._

Shit. He pauses, trying to figure out how to say it. _Hypomanic. Did he get a tweak on his meds? Is he taking them?_

_I think so._

Ian takes a deep breath. He feels himself holding his breath. _If it gets worse he’s gotta go back. Would he believe you?_

There is a long pause. Ian looks at the mark on the ceiling, paints it over in his mind like he always does. 

The phone buzzes. _I don’t know._

Ian waits for something else, but it never comes. He doesn’t know what to say, either. This is how it is, sometimes. 

*

Sully is barely in the door before Ian says, “We fucked around in the bathroom and now he doesn’t even want to talk about it.” 

“Um,” Sully begins, cracking a smile and passing Ian the 6 pack of beer. “Can I at least come inside first?” 

Ian takes a deep breath and heads for the kitchen. He pops the caps off two bottles. Fuck it. He swigs some back and shakes his head. 

“Woah woah woah,” Sully says. “Diving back into the drink, huh?” He grins and takes the cards from his pocket. 

Ian shakes his head. He takes a breath, closes his eyes. He waits until he feels himself steady. “I can’t stop thinking about it.” 

Sully takes his beer from Ian’s hand and sits down at the table. “That good?” Ian feels himself nod. Sully chuckles, slipping the cards from the box, beginning to shuffle. “And in a bathroom. Classy.” 

“Fuck you,” Ian says, smiling. “Like you’re any better.” 

Sully laughs. “True.” He takes another drink. “Wanna play 8s?” 

“Sure,” Ian says, catching the cards as Sully slides them across the table. 

“So what’s the problem?” Sully asks. “What happened?” 

Ian exhales. “He keeps–I mean, he kissed me, and now he says he doesn’t kiss. And he keeps saying, like, he doesn’t know how to do stuff, but then it sounds like he’s had sex in some alley a bunch of times?” 

“Again,” Sully says. “Classy.” 

“I'm being serious!” Ian huffs. He groans. “You can’t tell anyone, Sul.” 

Sully rolls his eyes. “Like I’d spread the word that Mickey Milkovich is gay. I’d like to live. I was scared enough when you rolled me up to that house.” 

“He doesn’t even admit he’s gay,” Ian says. 

“Why would he?” Sully shrugs. “Growin’ up like he did, I’m pretty sure there'd be nothing worse.” 

“But his dad is dead.” 

“Old habits die hard. He’s probably just fucking scared out of his mind.” 

Ian drinks the rest of his beer. His mind welcomes the thin blanket of comfort. “I know what he felt with me. You can’t fake that.” 

The look on Sully’s face comforts him. “So what’re you going to do?” 

Ian shrugs. “I mean, what _can_ I do? I feel like he shut it down pretty hard. I mean, I kind of did, too. But he–” 

“Well,” Sully says. “If you helped shut it down you can’t be mad at him for it. Just open it back up again. Call his bluff.” He sets his bottle down. “He knows this isn’t over.” 

*

There’s enough time. Sully left early, and summer’s evening light stretches on. Ian’s feet pound on the sidewalk. Running, running for miles. He got off the bus four miles ago. He’ll show up a mess, but he’ll have an excuse. He needs it. Gotta get it out of his body, out of his head, calm the part of him that needs calming. 

_There’s nothing to understand._

He doesn’t understand. He will never understand. He can’t. He can’t understand how someone could kiss him so hard, so deep and hungry, and then say those things. He can’t understand how Mickey’s hands slid against his face and neck so softly, and now he says he doesn’t know why. 

He sees what he’s looking for at the end of the block. A brick house tucked beside the El. It’s nothing special, just messy like the other houses on the block. He doesn’t know if this is really where he lives. Sully told him it’s where he used to live. _Two blocks from me_ he said. _Close enough I could hear their guns._

Ian stands across the street, trying to slow his breathing. He paces as his heartbeat pounds in his ears. Mickey. Mickey’s house. Maybe Mickey’s house. 

As if on cue, Mickey appears in view, smoking, a liquor store bag under his arm. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth and flicks it into the street. 

Ian watches him walk up the steps to his house, open and shut the door. He breathes so hard. He keeps pacing, and then starts to walk down the street, looking over his shoulder. Not now. Not today.

He’s about to turn the corner when turns back. Yes. Now. 

The door is worn. Clouded window. His fist pounds against it until Mickey opens up, face tight and annoyed. He stops when he sees Ian there, sweating and speechless. 

“What are you doing here?” It’s not as angry as he might intend it to be. “How did you find me?” 

Ian’s hand finds the doorknob as he presses his way inside. Mickey’s eyes are firm on his, lips parted. He starts to close the door behind him, hand finding Mickey’s in the process. “I asked around." 

Mickey takes a step back, slight smile. "Fuckin’ creepy.” 

“Sorry,” Ian says, taking a step closer, leaning into Mickey’s space. “I know, I just couldn’t–” He pants, swallows against his dry throat. He shakes his head. “I just couldn’t leave it like that. I didn't want it to be like that. I–” he swallows again, takes a big breath and lets it out. “I _don’t_ want to end it like that.” 

“Shut up,” Mickey grunts. He grabs Ian by the shirt, fingers sliding against his sweat, yanking him closer. Smiles. "Hey."

Ian grins. "Hey."

Mickey's lips part as his breathing grows shaky. His eyes drag against Ian, fist tightening in his shirt. Ian’s arms come up to hold him, but Mickey shakes his head and backs Ian up against the door. Ian’s hands press against it, staying still as Mickey’s mouth finds the space between neck and shoulder, licking against it before biting, softly. 

“Tell me what you want,” Ian gasps. It’s his question, this question, for everything right now. He keeps his body still, but lets his face lean forward, drag against Mickey’s, so close he can feel their shaking breaths. “Tell me. Anything you want.” 

"Want you to suck me off,” he whispers. Shaking. Hopeful. 

Ian groans, grabbing at Mickey’s belt, pulling at him hard, switching their positions to slam him against the door. “Oh yeah?” 

Mickey’s eyes are closed and his hand comes up to fist in Ian’s hair. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Wanna feel that fuckin’ mouth.” 

Ian’s breath hitches. "Yeah?" His mouth closes in on Mickey's neck, hand pulling at the front of his pants. "Gonna suck you so hard. You taste so fucking good." Mickey shifts, nerves palpable. “So good,” Ian says against his neck. “Love the taste of your cock, Mickey.” Mickey shifts away, just a little, stills. Ian tries to bring his hand to Mickey’s cheek to pull him back in, but Mickey bats his hand away.

“What, don’t like that kinda talk?” Ian says, pulling away from him, teasing. “Too gay?” 

“Of course it’s too gay. This is all pretty gay,” Mickey says, annoyed, but he reaches back to bring Ian close, shifting and tilting his head back again, inviting, waiting. "Let's just-"

Ian’s hands grab at Mickey’s hips hard. “Pushy,” he laughs. His fingers squeeze into his hips, drawing a sharp gasp. A tease. “So you’re admitting it?” He smiles as he eases himself to his knees. “You’re admitting you lied to me?” He chuckles as he starts to unbuckle Mickey’s pants. “Or are you still not gay?” 

Mickey’s body goes still. What? Shit. He begins to shut down, and Ian scrambles to open him up again. “Mickey- ” 

“Stop,” Mickey huffs out, pushing him off. “Just stop."

Ian slowly stands up. "Why?” He feels his face fall. “What’s the matter?” 

Mickey worries his lip. “I don’t wanna talk about that.” 

Ian covers his face with his long hands. Breathe. Breathe. Calm what needs calming. Calm what needs–

His voice isn’t angry. His voice isn’t sad. It’s somewhere between the two, somewhere reaching and desperate. “Are you serious with this?" He shakes his head in disbelief as he backs away. He picks up Mickey's words, throwing them back at him. "What happened to you telling me weren't 'out, or wherever'? I thought you meant you hadn't told anyone you're gay." 

He sees Mickey clench his teeth at the words “I know,” Mickey says. “An I aint gonna start with you, all right?” 

“So begging me to swallow your dick is okay, but if I ask if you’re gay it’s asking too much?” 

Mickey’s hands meet his hips and he turns to walk away. "I didn't beg you to do shit."

Ian catches Mickey’s hand with his, pulls him back. "So you're not out to other people. Fine. I get that.” Ian takes a breath. Calmer. Calm. “But you can't even tell me the truth? Do you even know the truth?” He crowds Mickey's space. Even angry, all he wants is for Mickey to touch him. "Because I do. And I know you do, too.” 

Mickey huffs in response, eyes to the floor. "Don't do that. You don't know." 

There’s a silence, then. A silence where everything hangs there, close enough to touch. 

“Mickey–” Ian says, hand sliding up to rest on his forearm. Mickey softens, lets Ian hold it there before he begins to shake it off. “I just want to know. I don’t want to hide. I don't want to be a mistress. I did too much of that already. I can’t go back. I just need to know that you want this. That you’re like this. Like me.” 

Mickey finds his eyes, but there’s not a message written there. The look on his face makes Ian close his mouth. 

Mickey reaches for his cigarettes. “You don’t know anything about what I want,” he spits. 

“Then tell me,” Ian says quietly. “Just tell me.” 

Mickey freezes, fingers on an unlit cigarette. He looks down, jaw shifting, jaw stilling. His eyes look glassy. Are they wet? Are they–

“I want you to go,” Mickey says. “That’s what I want. I want you to go.” 

Ian doesn’t say anything back. He turns, watches himself reach for the doorknob. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t shut the door behind him. He lets the door hang open, and he doesn’t know if Mickey is standing there in the doorway, watching him as he walks down the stairs and breaks into a run. Ian feels like those doors at the site, oddly sized and hard to sand down. Doors awkwardly holding onto the hinges, not closing correctly. Being shoved hard if it’s locked, the key needing to slide into the lock at just the right angle. There’s always an open place around him. Missing. Light coming in. Shadows coming in. A crack in the door that always looks like someone is about to walk in, or someone is about to leave.


	4. Hot and Cold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian asks for space. Mickey draws closer.

“I need to get taken off the Emerald job.” 

Don looks up from his desk, eyebrows knit together. “You what?” 

Ian shifts his feet. “I’m sorry,” he says. “There’s just too much on my plate and I feel like I’m falling way behind here.” 

Don sighs and picks through his papers. “Shoot straight with me, okay?” 

Ian nods. “Okay.” 

“This about money? Kowalski not paying you right? Cutting your time? I can work that out for you.” 

Ian shrugs. “It’s just, I’m just not sure why it’s gotta be me.” 

Don shakes his head. “Gallagher. It’s gotta be you because I’m the one who recc’d you. You’re the best I know. Kowalski and I go way back. He knows I’ll set him straight. If something’s goin’ down at the site you don’t feel is kosher, you gotta let me know. You buttin’ heads with the foreman?” 

“No–” Ian says, quickly. “No, he’s fine. That’s not it. I just feel really over-extended.” 

Don looks at him so fully Ian has to tell himself not to look away.

“Shut the door,” Don says. He stands up and walks around, sits in one of the chairs in front of the desk, motions for the other one. Ian closes the door and takes a seat. 

“This about you gettin’ sick?” 

Ian swallows. It isn’t often that Don brings this up. It wasn’t something Ian intended to disclose, but after he had to go to the hospital that second time–the time he learned to play cards–he decided he had to tell him. The doctor at the hospital went over it with him. Helped him write up something to say. She told him not everyone discloses the illness to their bosses, but it could relieve some pressure. At the time, Ian felt raw. Vulnerable, like he always feels after things get bad. But he knew he would feel better if he did. He trusted Don. Still does. He’s been working for him a long time. _They can’t legally fire you because of it, either_ the doctor said. It was soothing, and so is this, in its way. 

Ian shrugs. “No,” he says. “Not exactly. But I know I’m doing too much, so I’m just looking to streamline so I can keep doing things well. That might not make sense, but–”

Don holds a hand up. “I gotcha,” he says. “I hear you.” 

Ian looks down at his feet, his boots with fear underneath. “I’m just not sure what to do,” he says. 

Don stands up, so Ian does too, slowly. Don extends a hand, and Ian takes it. “I’m gonna talk with Kowalski,” he says. Ian wants to rush after his words. Say no, say wait. “I’ll take a look at things here. Between the two of us we’ll figure stuff out.” 

_It’s called a fight or flight response, the doctor said. That’s adrenaline you feel. Your natural fight or flight response._ He takes a breath. He wants to do both, right now. 

Don opens the door “How’s about you take the day,” he says. “I’ll take care of things and check in tomorrow. That work for you?” 

Ian nods and puts his hands in his pockets. Fuck. “Sure,” he says. “Sure, that’s great. Thanks.” 

Fuck. 

* 

“Thank God,” Amanda says, opening the door. “I need a shower so bad.” 

Ian chuckles softly, taking Ruby from her arms. “I was gonna say!” 

She rolls her eyes, “Ha ha, very funny.” 

Ruby is five weeks old, tons of dark hair and full lips. She opens her eyes, then slowly closes them as Ian whispers to her. He settles into the couch before turning his attention back to Amanda. “How are you feeling?” 

Amanda shrugs. “I don’t know. Tired as hell, feel like I’m just leaking everywhere. The usual. It’s getting better now.” 

“That’s good to hear,” Ian says, not taking his eyes of Ruby’s face. “Still hurting or getting better?” 

“Better,” she says, sitting down slowly next to him. “A lot better.” 

The birth was difficult, the recovery painful. Ian saw it with Monica, once. It’s why he’s been dropping by like this, every few days. It’s been part of his rotation. Bowman, Emerald, Sully, Amanda. It’s part of his “social seeking” plan Amanda helped him draw up before Ruby was born. _Nesting_ she said. _Pregnant women nest before the baby is born. Some people decorate nurseries. I micromanage people’s lives._ It would be easy to joke about, but having Amanda help him with his routines has been the best thing he could imagine. If he feels himself slipping, he looks at what Amanda wrote up for him, or calls her to help make adjustments. Nothing overwhelming. Just things like “Wake up, take pill, eat breakfast. Shower or wash face.” things like “take pill, eat dinner, wash dishes, take pill, in bed, light off in 30 minutes.” It reminds him, sometimes, of when he had his strict diet and army training exercises. It was easier, then, somehow. When he feels that slip, that panic, he pulls out the chart she made for working off or calming energy, or steps to re-enter the world if energy is gone and he can't get out of bed. 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but that’s why he’s here. 

He lifts Ruby’s head to his nose, breathes deeply. “Damn,” he says. 

“I know,” Amanda says. “It’s gone.” 

“Bound to happen when you’re getting so big!” Ian coos to her. “God, she’s so beautiful. Really.” 

Amanda smiles, tips her head toward his shoulder. “Did what I could.” 

Ian guides Ruby up to his chest as he slouches down, lets her rest there. She wiggles like she is about to wake up, but she doesn’t. “So I have a question.” 

“About babies? Because I’m pretty sure you’re a pro.” 

“No,” Ian says, smiling, “About, like, my schedule.” 

“Ahhh,” Amanda sighs. “Finally! Something I can control.” 

Ian laughs, quietly, patting Ruby’s back when she starts to stir. “I'm doing a restoration over on Emerald, but I’m doing the same stuff at Bowman.” 

She nods. “Lip told me. Said he was worried about you.” 

Ian rolls his eyes. “Of course he was. But that’s not the hard part. Not really. See, there’s this guy–” 

Amanda gives him a soft punch in the arm. “Really?” 

Ian nods. “It’s–that’s the stressor, I think. It’s kind of a mess. He’s closeted and I think it’s kind of a dead end. But I can’t shake him. Plus, I work with him on Emerald, so it’s not like I can just ignore it.” 

“Woah,” Amanda says. “Um, yeah. Get me that notebook from the kitchen.” 

Before long, she’s sketched up a schedule, asking what days he’s at Bowman and the schedule at Emerald. She stares at it. “It’s too much,” she says.

Ian sighs. “I know. I talked with Don about it. Asked him to take me off the job. I don’t know if he will or not.” 

Amanda taps the paper with her pen. “If you can lose 12 hours from Bowman, you’ll be more evened out. Think he can cut you 12 hours if you ask?” 

“I already said I want to be taken off Emerald,” he says. “So–”

“From what I heard, I’m going to safely say he’s not taking you off it. No matter what you want,” she says. “So if he comes back with an adjustment in hours, you need to scale back at least 12.” 

Ian nods. “What about the guy?” 

She shrugs. “If it’s a dead end, just let it go. If it’s not…” She gives him a look, lips slowly curling up to a smile. 

Ian leans his head further back on the couch. “If not?” 

Amanda pats him on the arm. “I think you can fill in the blanks there. As long as you do these,” she taps his med times, breakfast, and bedtime on the chart, “you’ll be okay.” 

Ian smiles, then tries to wipe it off, but it stays. “Okay. Thanks.” 

Amanda pats his knee. “I need to get in there before she wants to eat again. I never knew how magic a hot shower is until she was born. You gonna be okay?” 

Ian nods. “Perfect.” 

“12 hours.” 

“12 hours.” 

She’s about to walk into the hall when Ian calls for her. “Hey, Amanda?” 

“Yeah?” 

Ian looks down at Ruby, then back up. “Don’t tell Lip. Please?” 

Amanda hesitates, but nods, and then she’s gone. 

*

Sully wasn’t due to come over, but apparently he’s hamfisting a heavy knock on the door.

“Hold on,” Ian calls from the sink, washing his plate and fork. “Be right there.” But he keeps pounding on the door. “Jesus, calm down,” Ian shouts. 

He swings the door open and steps back with a gasp. 

Mickey doesn’t ask to come in. He pushes his way in, fast, eyes flashing and angry. “The fuck is this I hear about you wanting off the job?” 

Ian’s mouth drops. “I–”

“You have something to say, fucking say it,” he spits. “You got a problem with me, you come to me. You don’t just leave.” 

Ian huffs. “Like you care.” 

Mickey steps closer. “I do fuckin’ care. You pull off the job I got a bunch of guys with their dicks in their hands waitin’ on you.” 

Ian crosses his arms. “Don’t give me that shit. You still got all the piping and the plumbing to replace.” 

“So? He’s already workin’ on it. You’re supposed to be workin’ around it so we can get some fucking insulation in.” 

Ian shakes his head and backs into the room. “Don’t tell me how to work. I know my shit.” 

Mickey pauses in the small space by the door. Ian watches him take a breath before stepping more fully into the apartment. As things begin to cool off, Ian watches Mickey taking in his surroundings, finding the walls, the windows, eyes lingering on his bed before pulling up to meet his eyes. “I know my shit, too.” He takes a step closer, and Ian backs up by the kitchen table. “I know you’re good at this.” 

Ian sets his jaw before speaking. “Of course I’m good at it. That’s why I don’t want to waste my time there when I could be picking up jobs that aren’t so damn big.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Not what I meant.” 

Ian freezes. “What?” 

Mickey crosses his arms. “I know you’re good at this. Good at what’s going on.” 

Ian’s eyes are wide. “What do mean? What’s going on?”

Mickey rolls his eyes. “I’m not stupid. I know that’s what this little bullshit work tantrum is about. I won’t tell you I’m gay, so you go whining to your boss to get pulled off the job so you can fuck me over and get back at me.” 

Ian is holding his breath, staring at Mickey’s hard eyes. Fight or flight. He doesn’t seem to be doing either. He stands there. Waits for Mickey to come closer. 

He does. He begins to cross over to where Ian stands. "I missing something?” Mickey asks, pressing closer, an arm’s length away. “Is that what you’re playin’ at? Fuck me over because I won’t talk about it?” 

Something happens. It’s nothing tangible. It’s like something is poured over his head, softening his limbs, chasing away the nerves. “Yeah,” Ian admits. “Yeah. It’s something like that.” 

“Fuck you,” Mickey spits. He turns like he’s about to leave, but Ian’s hand flies out to catch his arm. 

“I’m sorry,” Ian says. He swallows. “I don’t–” Mickey’s eyes are deep and blue. “I don’t know why I did that. That night. I shouldn’t have pushed you like that.” 

Mickey’s mouth drops open, just slightly. He looks down at Ian’s hand on his arm, but doesn’t shake it off. 

“I don’t really–,” Ian begins, softly. “I mean, I know I can just be like that. Pushy like that. I don’t know why. But I’m sorry. I mean, I know that you aren’t ready to–” 

“Stop,” Mickey says. Quiet. So quiet. He pulls at Ian’s other arm, holds it. He doesn’t look up, but he doesn’t back away. 

Ian swallows. He fights the urge to speak, the urge to move, the urge to pull him closer. 

“Just because,” Mickey says to the floor. “Just because I can’t say it doesn’t mean it ain’t true.” His eyes lift up to find Ian’s, just a moment, before his eyes drop back again. 

Ian cannot speak. He feels that feeling again, that pouring, the feeling of his limbs loosening. His hand tightens, just slightly, on Mickey’s arm. Mickey reciprocates, and Ian closes his eyes. 

“It’s hard,” Mickey says, so soft, just a hint of roughness at the bottom. “It’s hard to talk about it. Got, you know, real scared of it. Got used to runnin’.” Ian opens his eyes again, finds Mickey watching him, almost looking for a response. He gives a small nod, huffs a tiny, strained laugh. “Guess I’m still runnin’. Fuckin’ tired.” 

Ian shifts closer to him. They are close enough to touch, share breath, kiss. “You don’t have to run with me,” he says, softly. “But I won’t force you to stop.” 

They lean closer and closer, and when Ian drags his fingers up Mickey’s arm, siding up toward his shoulder, Mickey sighs. His head tips back, just slightly, and Ian’s arm slides down down his back, sliding to rest around his waist. He gently pulls his arm free of Mickey's, and the other hand slides up to trace against his jawbone. Mickey’s head falls further back, a low sound in his throat. 

Mickey’s hands slide around Ian’s body, finding a place to rest near his shoulder blades. He tips his body closer, and they slide their bodies together, just a little, before Mickey steps back with a gasp. 

“I’m–” Mickey begins. “I think I should go.” 

Ian tries to soften his face, sigh without being heard. “Oh,” he pants. “Oh, okay.” 

Mickey shifts his jaw, breathing hard. “It’s not–” he begins. “I mean, I don’t want to go. But I don’t think I can stay, either. Not tonight.” 

Those two words. Ian knows he will cling to those words until the night Mickey steps back into this room. “Not tonight?” He hears the hope in his voice. 

Mickey nods. They don’t say anything else. 

Ian is the first to step back, and Mickey slowly follows. Mickey’s eyes are heavy and soft. Their breathing is hard and Ian steps toward the door. 

Mickey meets him there, eyes searching his face. “Don’t quit. Not over this.” 

Ian nods. “I already told–” 

Mickey nods. “I know. I know, he might pull you off. I get it. But if he doesn’t…” 

Ian smiles as he opens the door. “So was this to convince me?” 

Mickey smiles back. There is the faintest flash of pink in his face. “This was just to try and talk to ya about it. Guess I got kinda off track.” 

"I'm glad." Ian laughs, the sound coming easily from him. “Wait, how'd you find me?"

"You're not the only one who can scrape up details." He pulls back, smiling, flipping him off as he steps away. He doesn’t say anything else. Ian watches him walk down the hall, listens for his feet on the stairs, the opening and closing of the building door. 

Fuck.

*  
“Come on in,” Don says, smiling. It’s a smile Ian can’t read, but he follows him into his office. “Kowalski and I came to a deal.” 

Ian nods, swallowing. “Okay.” 

Don shuffles papers around and crosses his arms as he leans back in his chair. “He’s gonna raise your pay if you stick it out.” Don’s proud. He can tell that much. “Think you can stick it out?” 

Ian nods. “What about my hours here?” 

“I’ll cut ya a day and change. 10 hours. Two days off, just adding on a couple hours to your days in. That gonna work?” 

At least 12, Amanda said. At least 12. Fuck it. Close enough. “That works.” 

“I’m gonna work out the schedule with the foreman and get back to you later in the day. Only glitch I can think up is needing the work van. Think you could get a ride once or twice a week?” 

Ian pauses. “Um,” he says. Maybe he could borrow Sully’s car, or Amanda’s, if he has to. “Yeah, that’s fine.” 

Don stands up and extends his hand. “Great. I’m glad we figured this out.” 

Ian shakes his hand. “Thanks, Don. This helps a lot.” 

“Good, glad you’re staying on. Make me look like a dick.” But he’s laughing. “Hayley has some logged up for ya. You ready?” 

Ian nods. “I’m ready. I got this.” 

* 

Half of the water pipes are laying in the side yard when Ian shows up. Two plumbers are out front, talking to Mickey, arms crossed. 

Sully drove him here, and Ian’s pretty sure he either wants to pick up a few hours or rubberneck things with Mickey. 

“You guys are gettin’ ready to lay some pipe, huh? Think you’ll fit?” 

Ian groans. “You are not allowed to get out of the car.” 

“Watch me,” Sully says, punching him just a little too hard on the arm. 

Mickey is gesturing up to the roof when they get out of the car. Ian tries to knock Sully away with a jerk of his head, but he follows him. 

“Hey,” Mickey says, slight smile as Ian walks closer. “You made it.” 

Ian feels something in his cheeks, something warm that doesn’t come around very often. Blush. “I made it.” 

“Good,” Mickey says. “We got a situation with the chimneys.” He tears his eyes from Ian and finds Sully. “What are you doin’ here?” 

“Bowman needs the van a couple days a week so he’ll need a ride.” Ian sees him grinning out of the corner of his eye. “Think you’d wanna give him a ride sometime, Milkovich?” 

Ian slowly turns to him, words pointed. “I can take. The El. Sully.” 

“Like hell you can bring your tools on the El,” Sully says. “You need someone to bring you home.” 

“So,” says Ian, shutting Sully down. “Do you have any work for this joker? Or should we tell him to get out?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Get out.” Ian laughs, but Mickey says, “Maybe later in the week. I’ll call ya.” 

Sully gives a little salute. He catches Ian’s eye. “I’m busy later. Think you can get home?” 

Ian opens his mouth, but then Mickey speaks. 

“I’ll get him home.” He turns before Ian can see his face. “Come over here,” Mickey says. “Meet the guys quick and you can come check out this chimney.” 

One of the plumbers has a trench dug and is replacing the lead pipe coming out of the house, and two other guys are working inside. Ian makes the rounds and then follows Mickey upstairs. 

“Look up that,” Mickey says, pointing at one of the fireplaces. Ian bends down and looks up one. He can’t see anything. He reaches his hand back and is about to ask for his flashlight when Mickey slips one into his hand. 

“Thanks,” he says. He turns it on and looks around. “I can’t-I don’t know what I’m looking at. Did the guys cap it?” 

“No,” said Mickey. “That’s what I thought. Then I thought you capped it. Did you ever look up this one?” He sounds stern. “I thought you looked up all of ‘em.” 

Ian shakes his head. “No, I didn’t. I should have. I’m sorry.” 

Mickey’s eyes falter as his gaze holds him. “Just gotta figure this out is all. Think it’s gonna be messy. You okay doin’ it later? I want you to get going on your ducts.” 

Ian nods. “Sure,” he says. Mickey starts to walk away. “Um, Mickey?” 

Mickey turns, quick “What.” 

Ian tries to find his eyes, but Mickey is looking at the window on the staircase landing. “I–I’m sorry.” 

He lets it hang there. For the fireplace. For what he said. For trying to leave. 

Mickey nods. That’s all. 

Ian sighs as Mickey disappears downstairs. He heads toward the attic with his notes. ready to draw the lines of hot and cold, shining silver people don't get to see, the lines that make them cold, that keep them warm.

*

It’s been a long day. Ian’s shoulders ache from holding things up. He starts to pack up his stuff as Mickey climbs the stairs. 

“You okay to get started?” 

Ian nods. “Sure.” 

“Good. Gonna send the guys home.” 

Ian nods and heads back over the fireplace. He picks up a discarded pipe and lays it next to him. He searches with the flashlight. 

“I think something’s up there,” Ian says. “Something blocking it. Maybe a nest?”

Mickey sticks his head up, too. “Would make sense.” He gives a frustrated sigh. “I’mma get on the roof.” 

Ian takes a look around when Mickey leaves. The pipe was put in. Plastic replacing the lead. Old places have lead, new places don’t. It’s not legal to patch. No one wants lead pipes, especially not hipsters who only want to eat organic vegan food in their newly restored expensive house, around the corner from a boarded up bowling alley, two gas stations, three liquor stores, and a bunch of check cashing places. Lead pipes leaching lead in the water. He can understand it, of course. Still, he’s glad that’s not his job. 

He hears Mickey on the roof, goes back to the fireplace. 

“You hear me?” Mickey calls. 

“Yeah,” Ian shines the flashlight up the fireplace. “You see my flashlight?” 

There’s a pause. 

“Mickey?” 

“Nah,” he says. “Can’t see it. Know why? Fuckin’ ducks up here.” 

“Ducts?” 

“No,” Mickey says. “No, ducks like quack-quack.” Ian hears his feet moving over the roof. 

Ducks. Fantastic. Ian runs downstairs to get a tarp, and Mickey meets him at the door. “They alive?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Nah.” 

They grab white masks and head upstairs, lay the tarp underneath the fireplace. “They didn’t see this up there?” Ian asks. 

Mickey shrugs. “Guess not. One of the guys was pissed off with me though, so who knows.” He finds the pipe Ian put beside the fireplace. “Well, this is gonna suck. Good thing we’re not wearing our Sunday best.” 

Ian feels the tiniest thrill at the word _we._ “I’ll go get the clamp light.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Naw, it’s fine. I’ll do it.” 

“Mickey, what if–”

‘Who gives a shit,” Mickey says, picking up the pipe. “You just step back.” 

Ian watches Mickey jab around in the chimney, firm look of concentration as he steps closer. Things begin to fall. What looks like mud and moldy leaves and a bunch of junk. The debris begins to brush up against Mickey. His legs, arm. He holds his head back. Down comes a busted nest, more leaves, three dead ducks. 

Mickey steps back and pulls his mask down from his mouth. “Thanks for the tarp,” he says. “I probably would have just done it without. Don’t always think shit through when I wanna do stuff like this. This is better.” 

“Sure,” Ian says. Mickey is covered in dirt. “Here,” he says, sliding off his vest and handing it over. “Your face.” 

Mickey hesitates, then takes it, swiping it carefully around his eyes, followed by the rest of his face. He holds it in his hands. “Thanks.” 

Ian walks over to the chimney and looks up again. “It’s clear,” he says. 

Mickey nods. “Good. Let me slap on a temp cap and then we can ditch the shit in the tarp.” 

“It’s okay,” Ian says. “I’ll bring the tarp out. You go ahead.” 

Mickey swipes Ian’s vest down his arm. “Thanks, man.” 

Ian nods and collects everything as Mickey walks back downstairs. He waits to hear his footsteps on the roof. He closes his eyes.

* 

The ride to Ian’s house is mostly quiet. He offers directions, but Mickey remembers from the night he barged in. 

They pull up to his apartment, and Mickey lets his van idle. “Thanks for everything,” he says quickly. “The chimney.” 

Ian nods. “I shoulda looked before. I’m sorry.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “No big deal.” 

Ian looks out the window, in his mind climbs the stairs to his apartment. He turns back to see Mickey looking at him. “Do you maybe–” he searches Mickey’s eyes. “Do you want to come in for a beer or something?” 

Mickey’s eyes dart around his face. “I’m all dirty, man. Your apartment’s too clean.” 

“I don’t mind dirt,” Ian says, because he doesn’t. Especially not Mickey’s. Especially not now, when his hands twitch in his lap. “Come on.” 

Mickey stares at him, and Ian can’t read it. He begins to reach for the handle, say goodbye, but Mickey cuts the engine. 

“Okay,” he says. 

They take the stairs quickly, silently. Ian's fingers fumble with the lock. He steps away from the door to let Mickey come in. Mickey stays in place while Ian heads for the kitchen. 

He’s happy Sully has a few bottles of beer in the fridge. “Do you want one of these?” 

“Sure,” says Mickey. “Thanks.” 

“Do you–” Ian says. “I mean, I know I only have these kitchen chairs and then my bed. You can sit wherever. Doesn’t mean anything.” 

Mickey nods, eyes searching the apartment. He takes a long drink of his beer and looks at his clothes. “Is there, like, any way I could get some clothes? Go wash off?

Ian swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can...like, do you want a shower?” 

Mickey looks back at him. “Sure,” he says. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Just a sec,” Ian says. He busies himself finding a t-shirt and sweatpants, a pair of boxers. He goes into the bathroom and gets a towel and washcloth. He puts them all in a pile and presents them to Mickey. 

“Looks like the pile of stuff you get at juvie,” he jokes. “Only, you know, nicer.” 

Ian smiles and gestures toward the bathroom. “Go for it.” 

Ian begins to pace when the shower turns on. He’s naked. Mickey is in the shower. His shower. Naked. He breathes in and out deeply. He finds a dishtowel and wipes himself down at the kitchen sink. Takes his meds. Puts on fresh clothes. He looks at himself in the hallway mirror, runs his hand through his hair.

He can’t wait anymore. He grabs his phone and types. 

_He’s in my shower. What do I do_

_Go in there and make sure he’s reaching all the important places_

_not kidding here Sully_

_Neither am I_

There’s a pause where Ian can see that Sully is typing. He waits. He waits. He waits. The shower turns off, and the text comes through. 

_Relax._

Ian shuts his phone off. All the way off. He can’t help it. He’s too jumpy.

Mickey comes around the corner with his dirty clothes in a crumple. Ian gives him a grocery bag to put them in. He can feel Mickey’s eyes on him, and when he turns to give him his beer back, he sees Mickey’s eyes on his clothes. His jeans, his tank top. His gaze lingers on his arms before quickly looking at his beer bottle. 

“Thanks,” Mickey says, gesturing at his clothes. The sweatpants are long on him, but the shirt holds him perfectly. 

Ian steadies his breathing. “Sure.” He watches Mickey take a long drink of his beer. “Do you want–are you hungry or anything?” 

Mickey shakes his head no. “Can I take you up on sittin’ down? Legs are tired.” 

“Sure,” Ian says, and he’s relieved when Mickey moves to sit on his bed. He looks nervous to do it, but he does. 

“What do you want to ask me?” 

The question catches Ian off guard. His stomach flips. If he had a beer in his hand he would be pouring it on the floor. “What do you mean?” 

Mickey looks down at the beer bottle. “Just have this feelin’ you want to ask me somethin’.” 

_Relax,_ he says to himself. _Just relax._

He opens his mouth. “I’m confused.” 

“Confused about what?” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. Careful. “I’m just–I’m confused because I don’t know if you’ve had sex or not.” 

Mickey is quiet. “Sure.” 

“I mean,” Ian begins. “Not like it’s my business, really.” 

Mickey nods. “It feels like it should be your business. Like you want it to be your business.” 

Ian sighs, looks at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says. “That’s not fair of me. I know that. I’ve just been really confused. Like when you say you haven’t done things and then talk about alleys. It’s not like I’m thinking you’re a virgin or anything, but–” 

“Good, cause I’m not,” Mickey says, voice louder. “I’m not a fuckin’ virgin.” 

“Oh...kay?” Ian says. “It doesn’t really matter, I’m just confused.” 

Mickey sets the bottle down at his feet. Rubs his hands over his face. “Look,” he says. “I’ve...I’ve fucked a lot of girls. Haven’t done much with other guys. That’s what I mean.” 

“So not sex?” 

Mickey holds his breath. “No, I mean I’ve...had sex, I guess. It’s not like that, really. More like just fucking. I don’t know anything about those guys. Just fucking and getting fucked. Hasn’t been a whole lot of that, though. Just enough.” 

“Enough?” 

Mickey meets his eyes again. “Enough to know.”

Ian nods. 

Mickey picks up his beer bottle again. “That make any sense to you?” He says it to the bottle, not Ian. “Do you know what I mean?” 

Ian nods before he realizes Mickey isn’t looking up. “I understand,” he says. “I get it now.” 

“That it?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“What else you wanna know?” 

Ian shrugs. He slowly sits next to Mickey on his bed. He sneaks looks out of the corner of his eye. Sees Mickey sitting there, looking at his hands. 

“There’s stuff I haven’t done,” Mickey says suddenly. “If that’s the kind of stuff you wanna know.” 

Ian almost feels his heart stop. He turns to face Mickey, but he’s still playing with the bottle in his hand. His thumb swipes against the neck of the bottle. Ian tries his best to look away. 

“You don’t have to–” 

“I do what I want,” he says. “Quit sayin’ I don’t have to do things.” 

The bathroom, the stall. _You don’t have to do anything. It’s fine._

Ian nods. “Okay.” 

Mickey looks over his eyebrows. “All right?” 

Ian nods, watches Mickey set the bottle down, watches Mickey watch him. 

“Fuck. Okay,” Mickey says, nerves almost visable. “Okay. Fine. I’ve never, you know. Gone down on someone.” 

“Not even girls?” 

Mickey shakes his head no, bending it forward just a bit more, tucked in, hiding. 

“Wow,” Ian says. “That’s–” He doesn’t finish. They don’t say anything. 

“It’s more like,” Mickey says, breaking the silence. “It’s more like I don’t know what to even fuckin do.” He looks up at Ian, searching. Ian doesn't say anything. Suddenly, he knows what Mickey's asking.

“Um,” Ian says. “Well, what’s felt good to you? Like, when someone does that to you? That’s usually a good place to start.” 

Mickey’s cheeks are pink again. He shifts his weight. “Well,” he says. “I don’t know what’s felt good. I guess usually I haven’t paid attention with chicks. Usually said I don’t want one. Know that don’t make sense, but it just felt weird. Didn't like it.” 

Ian nods slowly. “Just because you think something should feel good doesn’t mean it's right for you." 

Mickey smiles. “Girls fall in that category?” 

Ian nods. “If that’s you.” 

“That’s me.” 

They are quiet. Ian shifts on his bed. He’s about to stand up when Mickey’s hand finds his thigh. Ian’s breath shakes out, surprised, stirring. 

"That night though,” Mickey says carefully. “I liked that. Felt that. Never felt that good.” 

Ian tries to shove his ego’s pride to the side to truly look at Mickey’s face. “Yeah?” 

Mickey slides his hand just a bit further up Ian’s thigh. His breath deepens as Ian twists closer. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Wish I could do it like that. Made me wanna try.” 

Ian nods. Fuck it. He slides off his bed and settles on the floor between Mickey’s legs. “You want to feel it again?” 

Mickey shifts with his sharp intake of breath. Ian’s hands slide up his legs, nails dragging against his thighs. “Holy shit,” Mickey whispers. He nods. 

“Sit back,” Ian whispers. 

Mickey leans back on his hands. “Like this?” 

“Uh-huh,” Ian says. He runs his hand up and down Mickey’s legs, eyes full on his face. 

Mickey looks down, eyes hooded. Ian can see his breath speeding up. 

“You okay?” 

Mickey nods fast. He leans back a little farther as Ian’s hands travel up toward his hips and then down again. “Yeah,” he says, unsteadily. “Yeah.” 

His fingers slowly pull at Mickey’s waistband. “How’s it feel when I start taking your pants off?” 

“Good,” Mickey gasps. 

“Good like what?” 

“Um,” Mickey says, closing his mouth around his pant, cheeks flushed pink. "Feels like I want something to happen. Getting hard thinking about you touching me.” 

“Yeah,” Ian whispers. “I feel like that too right now. Feel just like that.” He begins to ease Mickey’s pants off and they gasp hard as his hardness is fully revealed. “Getting so hard, fuck.” 

Mickey gasps. “Feels like I,” he says, picking up the unasked question. “Like I’m waiting for you to touch me and I can’t think about anything else.” 

“Good,” Ian whispers. He forces his brain to slow down. Savor. Communicate. "What else?" 

Mickey groans, head tipping back. "Happening so fast. God. Touch me. Please."

“I will," says. “But I like this part. Waiting.” He leans closer and breathes against his cock. Mickey groans and reaches a hand out. Ian holds onto it and pushes it softly away from him, bringing it back to rest on the bed. “Not yet,” he says. 

Mickey groans. “What’s next? What do I do?” 

Ian lets the side of Mickey’s cock drag against his cheek before pulling away completely. Mickey’s legs tighten. “You sit back and enjoy it,” Ian says. “Or lay back. Either one.” 

Mickey clears his throat. “I mean,” he says. “Tell me everything you’re gonna do to me. Just say the things you’d want me to do. To you.” 

Fuck. Fuck. Okay. Okay. Ian lets a breath out. “Okay. Well first, you can bring a hand up, like this,” He brings his hand up to Mickey’s cock, begins to stroke him. “And you move it like this, get it harder. Feel how much harder you’re getting? Starting to leak?” He can barely keep his eyes open. “Like listening to your breath do that,” he says. “Like how your breath is speeding up. I can tell you like this.” 

Mickey groans. “Then what?” 

Ian’s mouth falls to Mickey’s thigh. “I like to be teased,” he says. “I’d like to feel you kiss me on my thighs like this.” He kisses him slowly, fully, starting to moan against skin as Mickey’s thighs spread wider. He raises his head. “Like when you get closer. When I can feel your breath on my cock but you won’t let me feel your mouth yet.” He groans as his breath crosses over Mickey’s dick. 

“Oh fuck,” Mickey breathes. “Oh fuck.” He breathes so hard. 

Ian takes a steadying breath and clenches his eyes shut. “And I like when you lean up like this and kiss me here, nice and slow.” He presses a thick kiss to the inside of Mickey’s hip. Mickey’s hips push up involuntarily, and Ian brings his hands up to press them down again. “And I like when you hold onto my hips like this. Like how you remind me you’re in control, and how you’re taking care of me. Take such good take of me, fuck.” 

They are both moaning. So loud. So hard. This is, without a doubt, the most erotic thing that has ever happened to Ian in his life, and he hasn’t even touched him fully yet. 

Ian licks his lips and looks up at Mickey, waits for him to make eye contact. Mickey cautiously reaches a hand to the side of Ian’s head. Ian nods softly. Mickey’s fingers lace into his hair. Ian lets his eyes flutter closed. “I like that,” he whispers. “I really like that. Soft like that. Makes me feel," _safe loved wanted_ "good.” 

Mickey is relaxing into it, and it’s making Ian’s heart race. His voice is gruff and strung out as he slides his hand against Ian's cheek. “You hard for me?” 

At the mention, Ian brings a hand down, unbuckling his pants with one hand. "Yeah. Turn me the fuck on, Mick." He presses his lips to the inside of Mickey’s hip again.

“You gonna jack off while you blow me?” Mickey breathes. Ian groans in response, opening his pants faster, shuffling down to give himself room. “Think you can get us both off?” 

“Fuck yes,” Ian gasps. He nibbles at Mickey’s shaking hip. He doesn't touch himself though. Not yet. “I’m taking care of you, and you’re taking care of me. Now breathe.” 

“Breathe? Wha–” Mickey begins, but his moan interrupts his words as Ian’s mouth closes around the head of his cock, pulling and sucking. “Oh fuck, Ian. Oh my god.” 

“Mmm,” he hums. He slides deeper and back up again, swirling his tongue. He pulls Mickey’s cock from his mouth and presses it against his lips, bringing his tongue back and licking along the underside before sliding back down. Ian's hand slips down to fully let himself free before pulling his hand away again. Not yet. Not yet.

“Oh, fuck.” Mickey is shaking everywhere. Ian can feel him, taste him. 

Ian pulls off, fist still working up and down. “You’d put me in your mouth,” he whispers. “That’s what I want, more than anything. Just feeling your mouth, even for a second. The rest of this is–this is just instinct. Just relaxing into it.” 

Mickey nods his head fast. “What about–what’s it taste like. Do you have to–” 

Ian shakes his head. No. He looks down at Mickey’s cock, weeping at the tip. He swipes his thumb there and presses it to Mickey’s lips. Mickey brings it in hungrily, and Ian sinks back down, just his mouth this time, sucking hard and moaning around him, listening to Mickey’s whispered words. 

His hand returns, and Ian listens as Mickey's breathing gets faster and faster. He breaks off, pulling at himself, thank God, finally. Mickey's breath is fast and overwhelmed. "I'm gonna bring you in," he says. "Want to bring you deep. Wanna taste you, okay?"

Mickey moans, nodding his head. "Feel kinda," he pants. But he starts to slow, pull back just the slightest bit. Ian's hands still. Confusion paints Mickey's face. "Kinda..."

Ian sits further up on his knees. He cautiously reaches a hand out, sliding his hand slowly against Mickey's cheek. He waits for Mickey to meet his eyes. 

"You're okay," he says. "Can get intense, but I've got you, okay?"

Mickey nods slowly, eyes searching Ian's face. "Feels different than before." 

Ian nods. "Happens sometimes when you go slower. It's okay. I’ve got you. Promise."

Mickey nods. "Okay," he whispers. "Yeah, okay." 

Ian slides his hand back from Mickey's face. He looks up one more time as he lowers his head, lowers his hand against himself.

It takes a couple minutes to get back on track, but soon Mickey is ready again, moaning, swearing, cock so hard against Ian's throat, pulled in and in. Everything is hard and wet, heavy in his mouth and firm against his hands. He wants to stay here forever, scent and taste a perfect circle around them.

"Oh fuuuck," Mickey moans. "So fucking good. Love your mouth."

Ian redoubles his efforts, knocking him even deeper in his throat, lips pulling faster. He feels his own orgasm coming toward him. 

"I'm gonna come," Mickey whines. "Fuck. I'm ready. I'm-" 

His taste gets stronger and Mickey lets go, and Ian's hand pulls against himself a few more times before he comes hard, groaning. Mickey falls from his mouth and Ian’s forehead presses against Mickey’s thigh. 

Ian pulls his head up, just about to speak when Mickey's fingers slide against his face and pull him close to his lips. 

"Kiss me." 

Ian’s hand raises to Mickey’s face, lips meeting his in a deep, slow kiss. He feels Mickey pull back, slightly, and Ian lets him break it. "Sorry," he says against Ian's lips. "Just the-"

Ian nods. "I understand, it's okay." He begins to pull back.

But Mickey pulls him in again. "Just surprised," he says quietly. "That's all." He leans forward and meets Ian's mouth, opening wide and tasting him, them, this.


	5. Glass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay. This is happening. Actually happening.

Something wakes Ian up. It isn't his bladder. It isn’t the glow from his table lamp with the faded yellow shade. It isn’t even the sound of the tv blaring. 

It’s the feeling of someone looking at him. Staring at him. The bed is warm. The mattress dips down and away from him. There is the feeling of eyes, and then the softest touch on his arm. He inhales deeply, opens his eyes. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. 

Ian shifts closer to Mickey’s body with a hum. Closer. Closer to the side of the bed where Mickey sits, pulling on his shoes. Ian reaches an arm up and lets it slide down his back, sliding lower, not letting up until his hand slides against the mattress again. “Hey.” 

He sees Mickey fight a smile. “So,” he says. “So I guess we fell asleep or somethin’.” His fingers work his laces faster, but it doesn’t seem panicked or rushed. Ian slides his arm up and down his back again. 

The night's images slip against each other like cards on the table. Mickey in his hands, deep inside his mouth, shaking, letting go, words piled up against each other's ears. Gasps. Sighs. Moans. Mickey. Mickey’s mouth on his, tongue against his, searching, tasting.

After, and then. Then the image of Mickey's fingers gripping his arms and shoulders, pulling Ian up into bed with him. Pulling Ian on top of him, mouth against mouth, legs slotting against each other. Ian’s arms bracketing his head, lowering his body, kissing Mickey harder. Mickey’s moan as Ian’s lips slipped against his neck, hands in Ian’s hair again, hot breath in his ear. Mickey’s legs sliding up and out, Ian pressing against him. Mickey groaning as his legs pulled higher, one heel finding Ian's lower back. Fuck. Fuck. Moans into each others mouths. Shirts in the way. Pants in the way. But they stayed on, little layers straining. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Yes. Hands beginning to move, fingers just shy of pulling clothes off. Faster. Faster. God. 

Then. Wait. Hold on. Wait wait wait. Wait. Deep breaths. Deeper breaths, slowing down, stilling. 

Wait. 

Sitting up, fingers into eyes, bodies moving away from each other. Their eyes didn’t meet for a while, and when they did, the fire was burning again, but quieted. Mickey had let out a shaky breath. “I’m–” 

Ian nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, me too.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

They didn’t quite know what to say, or even what they had just said, but the message is clear. Not the right time. Not yet.

But Mickey didn’t make any show of leaving, either. Ian brought up watching Family Guy reruns, and Mickey said sure, and they settled in. He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He wonders if Mickey does.

Ian looks out the dark window. Uh oh. “What time is it?” 

“About 4.” 

Fuck. Why didn’t his alarm go off for his meds? Oh. Right. Turned his phone off after he texted Sully that Mickey was in the shower. 

“4? Where are you going?” He reaches for Mickey again, but he chuckles and ducks away. “We gotta work soon. Just stay. Go back to sleep.” 

Mickey gestures at his borrowed clothes. “Don’t got any clean work clothes, remember?”

Ian nods. “Oh.” He lets his arm slip back again. “Are you going to be okay?” 

“Sure,” he says. “Want me to come back and get you?” 

“I can take the el if you bring my tools back with you."

Mickey gives a quick nod, and Ian worries he picked the wrong answer. But then Mickey turns more fully toward him and gives a slow smile. “Hey.” 

Ian smiles. “Hey.” 

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” Mickey bites his lip, lets it go. Ian sits up to meet him. He squints around the room to find where his phone is. Mickey’s fingers find his chin and pull his face back. “Okay?” 

Ian chuckles. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Good,” he says. He bites his lip again, then presses his lips against Ian’s. It’s short, and not a promise, but Ian grabs onto it all the same. “Go back to sleep,” he says. 

Ian nods. “Can you grab my phone? Think it’s turned off.” 

Mickey finds it on the kitchen table and brings it over. Ian lies back again, turning it on. 

“No playing,” Mickey says sternly. “You set your alarm and you go the fuck to sleep.” 

“Mmmm,” Ian teases. “Yes, sir.” 

There’s a flush in Mickey’s cheeks. Ian can see it when he opens the front door. Mickey pauses. “Thanks.” 

“Uh, thanks?” 

“Fuck you, I have no idea what to say right now.” 

Ian laughs. “Agreed.” 

“See you in a few hours,” Mickey says, one last grin before he shuts the door. 

Ian’s phone starts up again. He goes to make sure his wakeup time is correct. He sees the missed alarm for his nighttime anti-psychotic. Last pill of the day, the sluggish one, the one that knocks him out but keeps his mania down. He checks the time. 4:18. Shit. It’s way too late. If he takes it now it will be hard to wake up, and he’ll be dragging at the construction site. That can't happen. He’s got a lot to do. 

He sits there a minute, trying to weigh his options. He could break it in half? Maybe? He sighs. Damn it. Sighs again. _Okay,_ he thinks. _Okay, no need to panic. Doesn’t mean everything is shot to hell._ Because it’s not. It’s a mistake. It’s happened before, it will probably happen again at some point. He’s careful almost all of the time. He’ll get on track again and be fine. The routine was off. Off in the most amazing way, but off. One miss doesn’t mean the world is ending. It’s not enough to shove him off the cliff. It’s not. It’s not. 

He turns off the light and lays back down again. He’ll be more careful. When he wakes up again, his pills will go back on track. He’ll be okay. It’s all going to be okay. It’s fine. 

The hard thing about missing a dose or taking it too late is this, though. Sleep doesn’t come as fast, and it swings a door open. Mind starts racing. It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be fine. He jerks himself awake over and over. 

By the time his alarm goes off again, he wonders if he slept at all. 

*

It’s not a far walk from the el. He’s out of coffee. He stuffs his mug in his backpack as he walks. He rubs his hand across his face. He is a mixture of happy and exhausted. His stomach jumps when he sees Mickey’s van as he turns the corner. He doesn’t see him, but just knowing he’s in there brings energy to his limbs. 

“Hey,” Mickey calls as he emerges from the house. “You’re late.” His voice isn’t hard, but his face is. 

Ian fights a smile. “Train was late. Sorry.” 

Mickey shrugs. “Fine.” 

Ian heads to the back of Mickey’s van. “Can I get in and get my stuff?” 

Mickey meets him at the van, pulls open the back doors. They are hidden there, large metal blinders around their flushed faces. Mickey’s eyes meet his. “Hey,” 

Ian grins. “How are you? Tired?” 

Mickey shrugs. “I guess. Not too bad. How bout you? Kinda look like shit, if I’m honest.” 

Ian chuckles as he pulls his tools over, checks to make sure things are there. His voice is low. “You’re such a sweet talker, you know that?” He grins as he turns to find Mickey, cheeks red, smile on his lips. 

“We gotta play it cool,” Mickey says. 

“Play what cool?” 

“Play _this_ cool, dumbass.” 

He laughs. He steps back with his tools as Mickey shuts the van doors. Ian drops his voice low. “Gonna be hard not to touch you, Mickey.” 

They are close enough that Ian can hear the hitch in his breath. “Fuck off,” Mickey says, but even though it sounds annoyed, there’s another weight within it. 

Ian clears his throat and walks ahead of him. “So what’s going on,” he says, louder. 

Mickey follows suit. “You can work your ducts. Trying to get framing around the windows finished. Take the glass out next week. Think Sully can do glass?” 

Ian nods. “Probably. You have a day? I can text him now for you.” 

“You around Monday or are you at Bowman?” 

“Bowman. I can see if I can switch days.” 

Mickey spits on the ground. “Nah,” he says. “Tuesday’s fine.” 

They walk inside, the bang of hammers and the shrill shriek of saws. Mickey motions his head upstairs. Ian makes sure to leave space between them, more space than he would if he was just some other guy. They pass Danny on the stairs, carrying pvc pipe and swearing. 

It’s quiet upstairs. His ductwork lies on the floor. It suddenly seems strange, feels like so long since he’s seen it. When he left it there, just yesterday, he had no idea that he’d have Mickey in his mouth less than two hours later. He smiles. 

“What,” Mickey barks. 

Ian laughs as he turns to face him. He takes a step closer. “Nothing.” 

Mickey’s eyes dart around as Ian moves closer still. He takes a step back. “Not here,” he says quickly, touch of panic. “Gotta be careful here. No one can find out.” He backs up more. “I mean it. Not anyone.” 

Ian nods. “I know.” 

Mickey nods. “I gotta get down,” he says. 

Ian nods as he starts pulling out tools. “Okay,” he says. “Can I get downstairs yet or no?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “No, not yet. Hope to get the plumbing done to get him outta here. Might be able to mark though.”

“Probably won’t have time anyway,” he says. “Unless you want me to stay late.” 

“Nah,” Mickey says. “That’s okay. ‘S Friday.” 

Ian pauses. Mickey isn’t making any show to move. “Okay, great.” 

Mickey opens and closes his mouth. “Hey, if you wanna maybe come over tonight, I got some action movies. You like Van Damme? Got Double Impact.” 

Ian’s mind is still tripping over the word _tonight._ ”Oh,” he says, swallowing. “Oh yeah, he’s–he’s great. Sure. That’d be cool.” 

Mickey’s eyes dart around his face. “Cool.” 

They hear Danny coming back upstairs, so Mickey steps away, nodding. Ian smiles before turning back to his work. 

God. Good Goddamn Van Double Damn. It’s happening. 

*  
_Hey, I can’t play cards tonight_

_why_

Ian puts down the other half of his sandwich and wipes his hand on his pants. _something came up_

_what. your dick?_

Ian laughs and reaches for the rest of the sandwich. Let him wait. It’s a nice day. The sawhorses and plywood they use as the plans table is out in the front yard. Mickey’s talking with head carpenter, pulling out the photos of the building from the historical society, pointing things out, nodding. 

_just can’t tonight. what about tomorrow?_

There’s a long pause. _this is about him, isn’t it_

Ian’s eyes meet Mickey again. _maybe_

_well tell him i’ll do glass on tues. if you get a chance anyway. don’t want to throw your game._

_ha ha. see you tomorrow_

*

There’s a plate with red sauce on it, the remnants of pizza rolls. Two empty beer bottles. Ian’s glass of water. This is Mickey’s house. This couch, this TV, this coffee table. 

The credits roll. They are seated on opposite ends of the couch. Mickey has been visibly nervous since they walked in over two hours ago. He disappeared to make pizza rolls and Ian was able to take one of his meds without being watched. He still has one more. He made sure he had his backups in the box before he came over. He has a good little stash of all of them. He’s gone from home at odd times and he doesn’t want to forget.

Ian didn’t want to press his luck. It was enough to sit. Enough to sit there, sneaking looks at Mickey during the movie. Enough to see him fidget, clear his throat, jump up to offer another beer or more water. He so badly wanted to slide up against him, pull him closer, maybe press him against the arm of the couch. But he didn’t. He doesn’t. He sneaks one more look at Mickey as the credits roll on. 

Mickey presses the button on the remote. The TV screen goes black, and the light in the room changes. Ian sees their shadows against the wall, the murky shapes of their heads. He reaches for his glass of water, but finds it empty. 

“I’m just gonna,” he says to the shadow. “Cool if I get some more water before I go?” 

He watches Mickey’s head turn. He slowly turns his head to face him. 

Mickey’s eyes drift all over Ian’s face. He nods. 

Ian pads his way to the kitchen, lets the water run cold before he fills it. He leans over the sink, swallowing it down, the tiniest bit of water slipping out from his lip. He reaches into his pocket for the pill he placed there earlier. He fills the water glass again, puts the pill in his mouth. Swallows it down. 

“What’s that for.” 

Ian turns as he sets the glass down. He presses his eyes onto Mickeys. “It’s for this thing I have. It’s fine, just something in my brain.” 

The bridge of Mickey’s nose wrinkles with confusion. “Like what.” 

Ian chuckles. “That’s kinda personal, don’t you think?” 

“Having my dick in your mouth’s kinda personal but that didn’t stop you.” 

Ian laughs. “True.” 

It’s quiet a minute. 

"It's–it’s a mental thing. Illness. It’s this mood disorder. Bipolar? Have you heard of it before?"

Mickey's face is still. "Is that like, like you start seein' stuff? Hear voices and stuff?" 

Ian doesn't know how to answer. Sometimes. Maybe a few times. "I mean," he begins. "That can also happen with schizophrenia, but yeah. That can happen with this, too, depending on the type you have. They can be kinda close to each other sometimes.” 

“That happen to you?” 

Ian feels a burn in his eyes. “Um, yeah, it’s happened, but that was a long time ago. It's usually not that bad. Mostly like I stop sleeping and get hyper. Or sometimes I get really depressed. Sometimes it feels like both at the same time. That’s called a mixed state. I’ve had those a lot. They suck. But that was all a lot worse a couple years ago. It really hasn't been all that bad for quite a while. It's kind of like being in remission, except you’re always treating it. It doesn't go away. It's just...part of me. This is just...the me that can be hard to deal with." He clenches against the tears that threaten to build in his eyes. 

Mickey takes a step forward, arms crossed. “But you’re okay, right? That medicine helps?” His voice is soft and warm. Ian meets his eyes, blinks twice, fast, and turns away again. 

“It helps a lot,” he says. "But I still get scared something will happen. Stress makes it worse." He can't meet Mickey's eyes. "That's why I asked Don to take me off Emerald. Added stress on top of my regular shit. But now it's ok."

Mickey gets closer still. "And us?" 

Ian’s eyes shoot up. He can hardly breathe. "Us?"

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly. “Us. This. Whatever this is."

"Really?" Ian breathes it, eyes widening.

Mickey doesn’t say anything. One hand cautiously reaches out, begins to slide up Ian’s arm, thumb brushing against his shoulder, his neck, finding his jaw and sliding to his ear, Brushing the lobe. Pulling him closer. “Yeah,” he says. “This medicine workin’ good enough for that?”

Oh god. There are words in Ian's throat, but they refuse to come out. He nods, nods again. He doesn’t move. 

Mickey steps closer still. “Good,” he says. “Good.” 

Mickey’s eyes are so blue, and his teeth worry his lip. He’s shifting from foot to foot, shifting his jaw, then stilling. His eyes drag down Ian, just a little, then meet his eyes again. 

“Gonna kiss you.” Mickey's voice is low and certain, and it sends a flow of warmth through Ian's body.

Everything rushes over Ian in that moment. The memories of Mickey’s mouth, his skin, his eyes. Ian’s own hands, his own lips, pressing against him. The feel of Mickey in his mouth. His taste. His smell. Him. 

Ian feels himself nod. Feels himself waiting to be held. Waiting for Mickey to guide him, take him. Waiting for Mickey’s other hand to slide up his arm and meet the other hand that cups his face. Waiting for Mickey’s thumbs to slide against his cheekbones as he leans closer. Mickey’s breath meets his face, his bottom lip slowly slotting under Ian’s, mouth slow and slack one small moment before Mickey’s hands pull Ian closer, harder. 

And Mickey is kissing him. Kissing him slowly, steady and deep and so surprisingly soft. He leans his body against Ian, pressing him harder against the counter. Mickey’s arms drop along his shoulders as Ian’s hands shoot out to hold his waist. Ian’s head spins, and Mickey starts to speed the kiss up, just the smallest bit. Their lips part to breathe, and Ian takes the opportunity to bring a hand up to Mickey’s face, the nape of his neck, cradling his head to pull him in deeper. 

A deep gasp comes from Mickey when they part again. He pulls back and reaches for Ian’s shirt, yanking it up. Ian lets it be pulled off, reaches for Mickey’s shirt at the same time, and it’s all elbows and fabric and mouths trying to push through it all. When they finally reconnect, bare chests brushing, they are both moaning. 

“C’mon,” Mickey gasps. He pulls Ian closer, steps back. “C’mon, c’mon.” 

They stumble from the kitchen into the hall, and soon they are falling into Mickey’s soft bed. Mickey holds onto Ian’s hands tight as he hovers above him. His eyes are heavy and hungry, and he pants hard as he looks down at Ian’s body. 

“Okay?” Ian whispers it, hungry to touch and be touched, waiting for Mickey to do something, anything. 

Mickey nods, and then drops his lips again, squeezing at Ian’s hands. He lets go as he pulls back, mouth falling to Ian’s chest, breath hard and wet against him. Suddenly he stops, and when he looks up at Ian he looks so soft, needy almost. And suddenly Ian knows what he’s asking for. 

"It okay?" Mickey says quietly, fingers playing with the waistband of Ian's jeans. His sounds are small, but his fingers feel strong. 

Ian nods. "Yeah, it's okay."

Mickey's mouth moves softly along the waistband as his hand pops the button. The drag of the opening zipper reveals more of Ian’s skin. Ian pants as Mickey nuzzles there, mouth warm, starting to pull at his boxers. Mickey pauses, sits up. 

Ian opens his eyes. "You okay?" 

He expects Mickey to pull back completely, but Mickey stays close enough to slide an experimental thumb beneath the waistband, close enough that he brushes over the head.

"Wanna...feel you like this. Okay?"

Ian sighs. Nods. He closes his eyes and licks his lips. 

He opens them just in time to see Mickey start to slowly kiss his stomach. He slides the jeans down, hands shoving them somewhere by his knees. Ian’s eyes flutter closed as Mickey pulls the boxers down, smashing them against the jeans before pulling back more, roughly shoving them off altogether. Ian draws in a sharp breath. He keeps his eyes closed as Mickey begins to hold him in his hand, begins to move him up and down, Mickey twisting his wrist and breathing _Jesus_ as Ian lets out a groan. 

His legs open wider, inviting Mickey in as his head dips lower. His mouth is so soft. He plants slow but firm kisses along Ian's inner thighs, nosing closer and closer to his balls, hands sliding around his thighs to hold his hips. 

Fuck, he's good at this. It's perfect. Ian's heart pounds. He gasps as Mickey nips at his hipbone, tongue dragging down along the inside of his hip, breath hot against his cock. He hears himself whisper _please_ and Mickey hums against his skin.

“Last night you said,” Mickey pants, a tease in his voice. “Said you like to wait.” He drags his lips up and down the inside of Ian’s hip again. Ian feels his cock graze Mickey’s cheek and his hips twitch. Mickey's fingers squeeze harder. "In control, here, Gallagher. Taking care of you, remember?" He slips back again, his tongue reaching out, sliding up the underside of Ian's cock.

“Oh fuck,” Ian moans, fisting the sheets so he won’t grab at Mickey’s head. “Oh fuck. Please. I can’t–I want–” 

Oh god. Oh fuck. The second Mickey’s mouth wraps around him, Ian's jaw drops, soundless. Mickey's head moves up and down, slowly. He doesn't take him very deep, but it doesn't matter. It nowhere near matters. It's the soft slide of a mouth that really wants him, craves him, beyond the barrier of skill. It's a pure feeling, gliding through that warm, inviting place, barely tethered to the earth. 

"Fuck, feels so good," Ian whispers, fingertips reaching, meeting Mickey's shoulders, dragging against them.

Mickey's mouth begins to slip down a little bit more, then even more. Ian can’t breathe. Mickey’s eyes close as he groans around him, vibrations coursing through Ian's body. Ian clenches his eyes shut, can feel himself loosening. He opens his eyes again and Mickey is there, looking at him, mouth full. Fuck. Fuck. 

Ian's body bends with a gasp. "Mickey wait. Stop. I don't wanna come yet."

Mickey slowly raises his head and loosens his fist. He's beautiful like this, lips swollen, breathing hard. 

Ian pulls him up, pulls him close. "Holy shit, Mickey. That was amazing. So good at that."

"Yeah?"

Ian's hand slides into Mickey's hair. "Yeah." He surges forward, switching their positions, kissing him hard and deep and fast, savoring the whine deep in Mickey’s throat. Ian’s mouth travels to his jaw, his throat, down his chest as Mickey’s hands drift up to hold him tight. When Ian’s mouth finds a nipple, Mickey’s back bows out with a sharp intake of breath. “Fuck,” he gasps, a thick thread of surprise in his voice. 

Ian raises his head, breathing hard against his chest. “You like that?” 

Mickey nods fast. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Yeah.” 

Ian licks at him, slowly drags his mouth and teeth before pulling back again. He wants to roll around in the sound that comes from Mickey’s mouth. 

“Ever had that done before?” 

“Fuck no.” Mickey gasps and pulls at Ian’s head to bring him back, but Ian pulls away from it. 

“Want me to keep going?” He can tease, too. 

“Yes,” Mickey whispers, breathing hard, eyes closed. 

Ian chuckles into his skin. He gives Mickey what he wants, dragging his mouth here and there as his fingers trace over Mickey’s arms, neck, hair. He tries his best to hold himself up, especially because the feeling of Mickey so hard against him is so deliciously distracting. He closes his eyes, then pulls back, slowly opening them again. 

Mickey is a wreck, chest flushed, mouth bitten, gasping against him. “Ian,” he whispers. “Ian, hey."

Ian drops back again, gently pulls against his nipple one last time, enjoying the fingers in his hair. He pulls his mouth off him but keeps his lips close, brushing against his chest.

"Ian. I really want to.” 

Ian’s eyes open wide. “Want to...” 

Mickey closes and opens his eyes. He doesn’t smile. Not exactly. But there’s a hopefulness that hangs there in his eyes. “I want you to,” he reaches down and pulls Ian flush against him, licks into his mouth. “I want to." 

"You mean–” 

“Yeah," Mickey says, eyes hooded. “C’we do that?” 

The words are barely out of his mouth before Ian is kissing him, the pace changing from slow to fast, from to soft and hard to slow and fast again. Ian reaches down, fingers fumbling at Mickey’s pants. He breaks away to yank them off. Mickey breathes in sharply as Ian grabs him by the hips, head slipping down his body, mouth sinking down on Mickey’s cock. Mickey groans and grabs at Ian’s head, fingers slipping. “Please,” he says. Ian slides further down, almost taking him in completely. He wants Mickey, all of him. He takes him deeper, almost all the way down, and Mickey’s body tightens as he groans. “Ian, c’mon.” 

Ian scrambles up Mickey’s body, hitching Mickey’s thighs up. They kiss hard, breath fast and faster. 

Mickey breaks off. “You want to?” 

He presses his cock against him, sliding a hand under his lower back, pulling hard against him. Mickey’s breath comes fast. “Fuck, Mick,” he says. “Yes.” Ian flips onto his back and pulls Mickey on top of him. He mouth finds his ear. “Have you thought about how you want to do this?” 

Mickey hesitates, breath unsteady, head dropping again, catching Ian’s lips with his. Ian’s hands pull against Mickey’s back. He lets a hand slide down to the base of his spine. Mickey draws a quick, sharp breath. Ian slips his hand just a bit lower, just meeting the crack of his ass before his fingers cautiously slip lower, sighing as Mickey's legs begin to part. Ian reaches in, drags his middle finger against his opening. Mickey’s eyes roll back. “Oh yeah,” he says. “Touch me there.” 

It’s Ian’s turn to moan. Okay. This is happening. Actually happening. "Do you have anything?" 

Mickey shifts. "Just–there's some lube there." 

Ian rolls them over again. He reaches for his bedside table, grabs the lube. He doesn't see any condoms, but he has a couple in his wallet. He almost wants to tell Mickey he's been carrying them in there since the morning after they kissed. He rummages on the floor for his pants, pulls them out. 

When he turns back, Mickey is lying on his stomach. He’s laying flat on the bed, tucked in, quiet. “Mickey,” he says. “You all right?” 

He nods into the pillow. “Yeah,” he says. 

Ian breathes in and out. He drags his fingers slowly down Mickey’s spine, curling into a palm as he smoothes against his ass. His breath hitches at the way Mickey subtly lifts his ass from the bed at that. “Do you like how I'm doing that?” Mickey groans as he nods. “Can I keep going?” Another groan. Another nod.

Ian reaches for the lube. He pops the cap and coats two fingers. He tries to steady his breathing. “Come here,” he whispers. His hands reach for Mickey’s hips, fingers tightening as he gently pulls Mickey onto his knees. Ian uses one hand to pull him apart. He groans. “Oh fuck, Mickey,” he says. 

Mickey murmurs below him, shifting back, just slightly. “C’mon,” he whispers. “C’mon.” 

Ian pulls Mickey’s cheek back a little further, and Mickey pants hard at the stretch. Ian’s other hand meets him. His middle finger, slick and eager, grazes against Mickey, circling, pressing against him slowly. 

Mickey lets out a moan. “Fuck,” he says. “C’mon. Hurry."

Ian breathes out, tries to slow his breathing. “Mick,” he says. "We don't have to hurry. I don’t wanna hurt you. Just hang on.” He drops his head to kiss against Mickey's back, whispers “Tell me when you’re ready."

Mickey’s breath comes faster. He makes a little sound, a sound that hits Ian’s ear like a plea. He sighs. “I’m ready,” he says. 

Ian’s lips press against his skin one last time. “On your back,” he says. “Need to see your face.” 

Mickey hesitates. 

"What?" Ian asks, confused. "Just turn over."

Mickey does, and when Ian sees his face, he knows why he stopped. He can't hold Ian's eyes. He's looking at Ian's arms instead. 

"Have you ever done it like this?"

Mickey silently shakes his head. No. He meets Ian's face, finally. 

“I’ve got you,” Ian whispers. He grabs a pillow and slides it under him. Mickey sighs. “Okay?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says, legs opening, breath relaxing. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Okay.” Ian drops down to kiss him, hand running down Mickey’s leg, squeezing. Mickey opens his legs wider, and Ian finds him again. It’s time. It’s now. 

He listens carefully to Mickey’s breathing as he slides the first finger into him. “Oh, fuck,” Mickey gasps. Ian keeps his hand still. 

"How about this? Anyone done this before?” Ian asks softly.

Mickey nods his head. Yes. “Never felt like this,” he breathes. 

Ian hums, dropping his lips to Mickey’s neck, dragging them, mouthing gently as he slides his finger back and then presses in a little harder. He watches Mickey, listens to Mickey, and when Mickey's breath reaches out, he pulls back to add more lube. Two fingers sink back into him, and Mickey rolls his hips, swears, jaw open as Ian gently stretches him. His fingers reach further, moving in tiny increments, until–

“Oh fuck,” Mickey breathes. “More. Keep doing that, fuck.” 

“Shhh,” Ian whispers. “Soon. Just wait. Breathe. It’ll be better if we wait.” He kisses him, kisses Mickey’s chin as his mouth opens and head falls back. Kisses his throat, feeling the buzz of Mickey’s moans against his lips. Ian gives one more turn with his fingers, carefully avoiding touching him too deeply. “You still want to?” It’s supposed to sound sexy, but comes off like a wish, a wonder, a hope. 

It works, whatever it is. Mickey reaches a hand up and groans into his mouth. His lips bump against his teeth. “Yes. Yeah. Please.” 

Ian nods his head, lips falling everywhere as he fumbles with the condom. Kisses Mickey’s hairline, cheeks, ears, the movements growing faster and faster, and when Ian backs up, Mickey stops him. Holds him tight, legs open wide. 

Ian’s about to say something, but suddenly MIckey’s hand reaches down. His fingers move to touch himself, finding the open space where he waits for Ian. His jaw drops. His hand moves to the side, reaching for Ian's cock. He softly squeezes at the base, lets go, motions for him to get closer. Ian closes his eyes at the touch. Opens them again, slowly.

“Come here,” Mickey whispers, body shifting down, just a little closer. Ian shifts his knees, sighs as Mickey reaches for him again. He guides Ian closer to him, breath catching as he guides Ian to his rim. He brushes Ian back and forth against him as they shake, then presses the tip of Ian’s cock against himself. He brings his other hand up to Ian's ass, gently pulling forward, gently pressing until Ian is just inside of him, then more, a soft gasp as they rock, pushing and pulling together until Ian fully enters him, moaning.

Ian squeezes his eyes shut, opens them slowly, finding Mickey’s face. He reaches out to smooth Mickey’s hair. Mickey’s hand rises to find Ian’s forearm. “More,” he says. “Now. I’m ready.” 

Ian slides back, then gently presses forward. Mickey's eyes open wide, and when they find Ian, they focus. “Fuck,” he whispers. 

Ian’s lips drop to kiss him softly. “You okay?” Mickey nods. Nods harder. “Yeah?” Ian says, and Mickey breathes yes. 

It’s slow at first. Mickey’s lips against his. Mickey’s legs learning where to hook around him, Ian watching his face, reading his reactions, making sure he’s okay. Slow. Mickey’s hands sliding up his arms, reaching against his back. Whispers. Breath. 

Ian can see in his face when things begin to shift. Mickey’s breath gets deeper. He starts to speak, low words like fuck and yes. Ian catches his mouth as he starts to thrust harder. Mickey’s groan is deep and sudden against Ian's lips, and his fingertips press harder into Ian’s shoulder blades. 

Ian’s mouth opens, panting hard. “Look so good,” he says. "So fuckin’ hot." He can’t stop himself. A faraway part of him cringes, expects Mickey to pull away. But he doesn’t. If anything, he breathes harder. 

Mickey begins to push his hips back as much as he can. 

“Here,” Ian says. He begins to pull at Mickey, trying to pull him up. “C’mere.” 

Mickey’s confusion seems to override his arousal, but when Ian fully seats him on his lap, he starts shaking, head dropping back. When he opens his eyes, they are wide and his mouth is open. Ian leans back on one hand, holding them up, the other pulling slowly, softly, rocking him close and closer, and Mickey’s voice is broken as he says _there. Oh god. Right there._

Mickey speeds it up, body learning what to do, learning how to ride him. They kiss hungrily, thick gasps interrupting the press of their lips. Ian’s hand slides up fast to hold Mickey steady by the neck, arm giving him a place to lean back into. Mickey's hips rock back and forth faster as he cries out. 

“Touch yourself,” Ian pants. “Wanna watch you come.” 

Mickey’s moan rips out of him and he reaches down to pull his cock. Head back and back and back and Ian’s arm holds onto him tighter as he begins to unravel. His lips are bitten and red, breathing hard, eyes closed. Beautiful. 

He comes hard against Ian’s stomach, and almost immediately Ian flips them over again, Mickey’s back hitting the mattress. Mickey’s breath catches and stutters as Ian thrusts into him six, seven, eight times before his jaw drops, moaning, releasing hard into the condom, head falling next to Mickey. He carefully pulls out and rolls onto his back. Spent. 

They don’t speak. They do not touch. Ian listens to their breathing slow. He turns his head, and Mickey’s eyes are darting all over the ceiling. 

“Hey,” Ian says, fumbling with the condom, grabbing tissues on the side table. 

Mickey turns his head. His eyes settle on Ian’s. “Hey,” he pushes out. 

Ian doesn’t say anything. Mickey turns away. 

Mickey pulls the sheet over himself, crossing an arm around his chest. “I haven’t,” Mickey says, so quiet Ian can barely hear. “It hasn't been like that.” 

Ian turns on his side. He hesitates, but when Mickey turns back, he finds his words. “Hasn’t been like what?” 

Mickey swallows. “You know,” he says. “Like it hasn’t felt like that. Like the stuff you did. Hasn’t been like that.” 

Ian breathes deeply. “What’s it been like?” 

Mickey sits up. His hand drops, searching the floor for his pants. He pulls the pack of cigarettes out. He lights one, inhaling deeply. “It’s been-” he begins quietly, blowing the smoke out, "Just so fast.” 

Ian can see him. then. The image of Mickey bent over in an alley, probably his hands on some dumpster, maybe drunk, some stranger pounding hard against him. Probably not even waiting for Mickey to be ready, maybe Mickey not waiting to be ready, maybe not knowing that he could, that he should. He sighs. “Too fast?” 

Mickey nods. Shrugs. “I guess,” he says. 

Ian reaches out for the cigarette and takes a drag. "If you want to go fast sometime,” he says carefully, “we can go fast. Or harder or whatever. But not so much that you’d get hurt.” 

Mickey's hand swipes against his face. His fingers say F U C K and his mouth whispers it too. "Don’t get hurt,” he says. Defensive. Probably lying. He pulls away, starts to close up whatever part of him that shared this. “Didn't say I got hurt. I was just saying it was different, what you did.” He swallows. "What we did."

Ian nods slowly. “Okay,” he says. “Okay different?”

Mickey pushes his fingers against his eyes. He nods, but doesn’t say anything. 

Ian swallows.“Okay.” 

Mickey hands him the cigarette. He swings his legs over the side of the bed. He pulls on his boxers without letting the sheet fall again to reveal him. He leaves the room without any sort of announcement. Ian closes his eyes. He can hear the water running in the bathroom. Hears a shower turn on. 

It’s an odd feeling. It’s almost like crying, but more confused and disjointed. He turns his head and sees the condom and tissues in a big crumpled bunch on the scratched up table. For a minute it doesn’t even feel like they had sex at all. 

Ian takes deep breaths, blowing out slowly. He thinks of Mickey’s words. They were so much and nowhere near enough at the same time. Ian wants to talk, always wants to talk, always wants to know more. The way sex felt, before. The difference, now. He wants to know what Mickey likes, specifically. What he wants, again. More than anything, he wants Mickey. Holding him. Kissing him. Even just laying there beside him quietly, not doing anything. The shower runs and runs. 

He slowly gets out of bed. He smells like sex and Mickey. He smells his arm, his armpit, chasing something. He sighs and starts to put on his clothes. 

The kitchen light is on, and there’s a window just above the sink. Ian sees himself reflected there in the dark, slightly warped. The window is drafty, of course, and painted shut. He finds a paper towel, folds it, a swipe under the water, cleaning off his face. He washes his hands, smooths back his hair with wet fingers. He finds his water glass and takes a long drink. 

The shower shuts off, and Ian hears the door open. He can hear Mickey walking, and the sound of the bedroom door closing. Ian fills the glass again. Drinks. 

He’s putting on his shoes when Mickey emerges from his room, hair dark and wet, sweatpants and t-shirt. “You goin?’” Mickey says, tone unreadable. Ian looks up, and he can’t see the answer he needs in Mickey’s face. 

Ian shrugs, “Yeah, I guess I thought maybe?” 

Mickey crosses his arms and nods. “Sure, okay.” 

Fuck. Ian sighs deeply, put his elbows on his knees, hands on his face. “Look,” he says. “Look, Mick, I don’t know what I’m supposed to do here.” 

“Do whatever you want,” Mickey says. It’s not anger, it’s just a statement. Detached. “Just asking.” 

Ian stands. “What I want,” he begins softly, taking the small steps toward Mickey. Mickey’s eyes flit back and forth, land on his mouth and pop up again. "What I want is to talk to you about this. You started to tell me stuff and then you just went in the shower. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I don't know if you're okay. I don't know what you're thinking.” He shrugs, looks up into Mickey’s eyes. Looks down.

They are quiet. Ian is about to step away, but Mickey’s hand comes out, tentative and sure all at once. He holds onto Ian’s wrist, thumb sliding against the sensitive skin on the inside. “ Hasn't been like this," Mickey says, quietly. “Remember? Haven’t,” he clears his throat. “Felt it like this. It's just a lot. Lot to think about."

Ian nods. “Did- do you want me to go? I can go.” 

Mickey shrugs. His thumb still slides against his wrist. “If you want,” he says. He doesn’t meet Ian’s eyes. When he does, Ian can barely breathe. "I just don't know what to do. I'm sorry. I-"

Mickey's breath is soft when Ian finds him, their lips moving slowly at first, then just a little bit harder. Then just a little bit faster. Ian pulls him closer, hands firm and wide on his back. 

“Stay,” Mickey whispers into Ian’s mouth. His hand slides into his hair. "Please."

Ian’s arms slide over him, everywhere, pulling him closer, holding him tighter. 

“Ian,” he says, breathless. 

Ian nods against him, finding his ear. “I’ll stay,” he says quietly. “I’ll stay.” 

“I wanna go fast,” he whispers. "Fast and hard. Like you said."

Ian nods and nods. He presses and presses against Mickey, grabbing at him roughly, sighing as Mickey's hands reach below his shirt, nails dragging, pushing the shirt over Ian’s head. "Show me."

Ian nods, holding him tighter, whispering “I will” into his hot mouth.

They stumble through the hallway, back into Mickey’s room, back into Mickey’s bed, back into Mickey, here and there and yes. 

*

He doesn’t remember falling asleep. He doesn’t remember the last thing they said, but Mickey’s skin is so warm under his hand, and the room is bright. 

He rolls away slowly, rubs his eyes. He’s still tired, but his mind is full. He feels his smile under his hands. There’s an ache in his neck, and when his fingers find the sore spot, he remembers what it is. Fuck, it was good. 

He checks his phone for the time. He slowly peels himself out of bed. There are boxers on the floor, and they aren’t his, but he slips them on anyway. He looks over his shoulder. Mickey’s mouth is open slightly, face still, hand curled around the thin sheet that covers him. Ian fights the urge to slide back into bed and kiss him awake, starting with that hand, starting with each black line on his knuckles. 

He opens the door quietly, tiptoeing into the hall to grab his med case from his backpack. He finds it sitting next to the couch. He unzips it, pulls out the pill box. 

“Who the fuck are you?” 

Ian jumps and the box falls to the floor. He turns around. There’s a girl with deep black hair, pale with light eyes. She’s leaning against the doorframe in the kitchen, black tank top and shorts, long legs and dirty sneakers. 

“I’m” he stammers. “I’m Ian. Ian Gallagher.”

She pushes herself away from the wall. “So you were the one making all that noise last night?” 

Ian feels his cheeks flush. “Uh,” he says. “Sorry, I–”

“Gallagher?” Mickey calls from the bedroom. “What the hell, man. Come back.”

The girl’s smile creeps up slowly, 

Ian huffs a little smile. He clears his throat and picks up the pillbox. “I just gotta, um, take this medicine. Need some water. Can I–” he gestures at the sink. 

The girl shrugs. “So how’d you meet–” 

“Gallagher! Where the fuck’d you go?” 

The girl stares at Ian while she yells. “He’s talking to me, shithead!” She has the same piercing gaze Mickey has, bright and pointed, with something warm just out of reach. Suddenly, Ian knows who she is.

He opens his mouth, but then hears the bed creak, and part of him cringes at the sound. He didn't notice it creaking before. Mickey emerges, and Ian recognizes his boxers. He gives a sharp intake of breath as he notices the marks on Mickey's chest and neck. Fuck.

The girl laughs. "Nice hickeys, loser."

Mickey looks down, then jerks his head up. Ian can see the blush rise in his cheeks. "Eat me." 

The corner of the girl's mouth ticks up. "I'm Mandy." 

Ian nods, extends a hand as he walks toward the kitchen. She takes it, smiling. "Nice to meet you." He keeps her eye as he finds his water glass from last night. 

"Gonna get dressed I guess," Mickey grunts.

Mandy rolls her eyes. "I'm making eggs. If you quit being such a prick I'll even make you sausage." 

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey says before motioning Ian over. He follows Mickey into his room, searching for his clothes on the floor. 

"I like her," Ian says, pulling his shirt on.

Mickey shakes his head "Fucking cockblocker."

Ian chuckles. He sits on the bed to slide his jeans on. 

Mickey suddenly turns and pushes Ian back on the bed. Their lips meet somewhere between a kiss and a smile. Ian hums against him. Mickey pulls back. "Hi," he says. 

Ian smiles "Hi." He takes hold of Mickey's lips again, pulls back. "For someone so averse to kissing, you sure seem to like it."

Mickey laughs against Ian’s neck, mouth sliding past the hickey he made, pressing against him before lifting up again.

Ian slides a stray piece of hair back against Mickey's forehead. "You feeling okay? Sore or anything?" 

Mickey shakes his head. No. 

"Good," Ian says quietly. "That's good."

Mickey reaches for his cigarettes. "Thanks," he says, quietly. 

"For what?" 

Mickey lights one, takes a deep drag. "All of it, I guess." His eyes meet Ian's. "Like how you are." 

Ian feels like he's about to melt into the bed, just dripping down into the springs, deep into the coils, moving and rocking, creaking under the weight of Mickey's body, his body, both of them moving like this and like that, in and out and over, pulling and pushing, breathing. He wants to hold Mickey like that, holding him up. Holding him. Keeping him.

He wants to say these things, and more, but there’s a clattering noise from the kitchen. 

"Hey," Mandy yells down the hall "Quit fucking around if you want breakfast!" 

"Guess that settles that," Mickey grouches, stubbing out his cigarette.

Ian stretches as he stands up. "Just as well. We need to go buy condoms anyway." He grins at Mickey's flustered face. "So what, you're the guy that can't buy condoms?"

Mickey flips him off. "Not a Boy Scout like some people I'd mention."

Ian smiles, but there is a sudden worry. "What about-"

"Few months ago," Mickey said. "Turned out ok. They give out condoms. Probably have a few around, just don't know where they are."

Ian looks around the clutter hurricane that is Mickey's room. "Can't find them, huh? Can't imagine why."

Mickey socks him in the shoulder. "Dick." He laughs. "Naw, but seriously. Nothin since then. Except you."

Ian smiles. "I'm glad."

Mickey chews the inside of his cheek. "What about–" he begins. "What about you?" 

"I'm good," Ian says. "Been a while for me, too."

Mickey nods. "Good."

There's another clatter in the kitchen. "I'm gonna eat all this sausage if you don't come out." Mandy yells.

The room is flooded with light. Mickey pulls his pants on again, zipping around Ian's boxers. He watches Mickey rub against the dark marks on his chest, a hiss with a smile around it. 

"You hungry?"

Mickey smiles. "Never been hungrier in my life."


	6. Plastic and Paper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian is reminded of his past as tensions begin to rise.

“And that’s what happened.” 

Sully’s mouth is open. There’s a softly barked laugh as he reaches for his beer bottle. “Holy shit, man!” 

Ian nods. He can feel himself fighting a smile. “So that’s why I have this,” he says, pointing to his neck. “Question answered.” 

Sully shakes his head and takes a long pull of his beer. “Question _more_ than answered, butthead. I didn’t need to hear every position you fucked our foreman in.” 

Ian feels his cheeks get red. “What? I–” he begins. “I did _not_ get that detailed.”

Sully kicks Ian hard under the table, hard enough to make Ian wince. “I’m a very patient man. I heard you did it once, then got your clothes on, then he comes back out and you get your clothes off again, and then you start to put clothes on again but then they manage to come off again and you slept over. Right?” 

Ian nods past a smile, reaches for his water. “Yeah, that’s–that’s pretty much what happened.” 

Sully reaches for the cards and starts to shuffle them. “I am a good listener. I listen.” 

“Sull–” 

The cards flip over in Sully’s hands. He bends them into a bridge once, and then the other way. They fly against each other. He shakes his head, not looking up. 

“Sull, what’s–” 

“Gallagher, I’m saying I’m a good listener. I heard you. I heard how no one is supposed to know. I heard that he wants it quiet. I know he’s not out. I know you don’t like dragging personal stuff into work. So am I gonna show up on Tuesday and go up to some fucking thin as hell glass and start talking shit at the same time I'm trying to take it out without killing myself? Am I really that guy?"

Ian shakes his head. He can hear the joke there, but something frustrated too. “No, you’re not that guy.” 

Sully nods. “You remember how I called you a faggot on that northside job?” 

“Of course I remember.” Ian can almost picture Sully’s face, but it’s hard to picture it the way he looked, then. He’s re-written Sully’s face over and over every time they’ve hung out since. “That place with the water damage.” 

Sully nods. “You were getting pissed off because me and that mexican guy kept getting at each other’s necks. And then you started trying to get in between us when shit started going down and you put your hand on my chest and his chest? And then I pushed your hand off me and went all ‘watch where you put your fucking hands, faggot.’”

Ian nods. “Yeah.” 

Sully nods. “You looked at me like you were going to fucking punch me.” 

“I wanted to.” Ian says, quietly. They never talk about this. It’s been a year, but it feels like longer. 

Sully rises to get another beer. “I sure wasn’t ready for you after,” he says. “Wasn’t expecting that.” 

Ian breathes out. “I still feel pretty shitty about that, honestly.” 

He reaches in his memory, remembers himself smoking, waiting, watching. Sully coming into view, lighting a cigarette and walking toward his van. He reaches into his memory and remembers the feeling of Sully’s shirt in his hands, his eyes wide while Ian tightened his fist in his shirt. Remembers the words spitting from his own lips. _You call me a faggot again and I’ll fucking kill you._ Remembers being ready to punch, picking Sully away from the van and then slamming him back against it. _You think I’m a fag? Yeah, I’m a fag. Fine. Don’t think I won’t beat the shit out of you._ He remembers Sully’s hands, raised in surrender, saying _It’s cool, man. We’re cool. I didn’t mean it like that. I don’t give a shit who you bang, I promise._

“Nah,” Sully says. “My fault. Taught me not to shoot my mouth about gay dudes, that’s for sure. I just had no idea. I wouldn’t have known. Before you I didn’t know they made them your make and model."

“That’s always the thing, though. People don’t know. And they just say shit and I’m expected to just stand there and take it.” 

Sully laughs. “I think you’re way past standing there and taking it, Ian. I’m walking proof. You don’t back down from that stuff.” 

“See,” Ian begins. “See, I was a little hypomanic then, though. When I was trying to fight you. That was when my drugs weren’t so good and I kept popping up from doing too much. That impulse control is weak. I don’t know what I’d do, now. And I don’t want to even think about what Mickey’d do.” He bounces his knee under the table. 

“Hey, you don’t have to look back and see if you were sick. The fact is, I was an asshole, and you let me know it. You didn’t back off it. I knew where we stood after that. You might feel bad about it, but that was when I knew I liked you.” Sully sets the bottle down and picks up the cards again. “As a _friend_ I should add. Don’t get any of your crazy ideas.” 

Ian laughs. 

Sully plays with the cards in his hands, not really doing much of anything. “Don’t worry about Mickey,” he says. “Don’t even go there. He’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ve done this before. You’ve flown under the radar at jobs pretty much the whole time I’ve known you.” 

Ian shrugs, tries to slow his breathing down. Anxious. He’s anxious. Shit. “Yeah, but still. I know some other guys we’ve worked with have suspicions. What if–”

“Nah, fuck that,” Sully says. “No one’d step to you looking like you do. Even if they did, you’d handle it.” 

Ian presses his fingers against his eyes. “I don’t want to have to handle shit, though. It’s just this one thing that means absolutely nothing in the grand scheme.” 

Sully sighs. “All I’m saying is that I pity the fool that tries to throw down with you about this. And you know I’ll be beside you on it if it comes to that.” He cracks his knuckles. “We were born southside for a reason.” 

Ian laughs, but his laugh falls. “That’s what I’m worried with about Mickey, you know? When it’s us, he’s fine. But then...I don’t know. We’re friendly at the site. Maybe too friendly. What do you think? Is it obvious?” 

“To them?” There are chips on the counter, and he grabs them and rips the bag open. “No, I don’t think so. Enough going on I don’t feel like anyone’s paying attention to anyone.” 

“Good,” Ian says, like he’s trying to convince himself. 

Sully shoves chips in his mouth. “Even if they’d catch wind of you, they’d never think of a Milkovich. They’d probably just think you were banging me.” 

Ian pulls the bag closer to him. “You should be so lucky,” he says, joking under his breath. 

“Hey,” Sully says. “I listen. Clothes off, clothes on, clothes off, clothes mostly on, clothes off, sleepover. That sounds fucking exhausting.” He throws the rest of his beer back. “Let’s play, Romeo.” 

* 

It’s been a while. He decides to call Amanda on the way back to Bowman after a quick job at a residence nearby. When she answers she doesn’t even say hello. 

“Ruby is pissed as hell,” she says. “She’s given up on you coming over again.” 

Ian laughs. “I’m sorry. I really am. Things have gotten really busy.” 

There’s a pause. “Too busy? You texted me that Bowman cut your hours, right? What’s up?” 

“It’s that guy,” Ian says, chest close to bursting. “That guy and I...we’re like…” 

“Together?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, I guess.” He hears a little cry on the other end of the phone, then a rustling, and then Amanda’s voice again. 

“Sorry. What did you say?” 

“I said that, yeah, we’re together.” 

“Does he know about your bipolar?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. He comes to a stoplight and reaches for his coffee. “It’s fine.” 

There’s another pause and another noise from Ruby. “What about your med times? Are you doing okay?” 

“Yeah,” he says. “I mean, I messed up a little but I’m back on track.” 

“Your sleep? Are you logging your hours like we talked about?” 

Ian breathes in deeply. All of a sudden he thinks this is a mistake. It’s a tedious, stupid mistake, and he doesn’t know why he called. He has to get off the phone, but do it slowly, not tipping his hand to show her this. “I’m...not exactly, but I’m getting enough.” 

“Yeah? Like how much?” Amanda’s good at this. Accountability. Entrapment. It’s why he picked her. He knows that. He remembers that is why. But this is the downside. 

“Like 7? 8?” He tries to say it quickly, confidently. “Not as much. But enough.” 

There’s a slight pause. “Ian. You know you gotta be careful in summer. All the light. The work you do.” 

Ian pulls to the side of the street. He’s just a few blocks away from Bowman, but he doesn’t want to show up like this. “Look,” he says. “I know. I know. Things were a little dodgy with med times, but I’m back on track. It hasn’t been long. It’s fine.” 

“So what’s the plan?” She’s pressing him again. “You’re going to start your mood chart again to be sure? That’s what we decided on if you wobbled again.” 

Ian closes his eyes, clenches and unclenches his teeth. “Sure,” he says curtly. “I guess I can do that.” 

There’s another cry on the other end of the line, another muffled fumble. “Switching her over to the other side, just a sec.” Ian focuses his eyes on a building nearby. Siding falling off. He’s so tired of seeing houses and buildings falling apart. All he can see is the work it would take to fix them. Amanda’s voice returns. “Look, Ian. This is what we agreed on. This is what you wanted me to be for you. You can be pissed off at me, but I’m holding up my end. I care about you.” 

Ian breathes out. “I know,” he says. “I know.” His eyes tear down that siding in his mind. Tear and tear, in big pieces that wobble in his hands and fall in one long line. “I’m not sick. I mean, I’m getting angry kinda quickly. Or, like, not angry, but just frustrated. I know I gotta watch how much I’m putting on my plate. I’m figuring it out. I’ll probably call the doctor in a few days just to check in.” It’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie. But he knows what the lie will say. That he knows, that he cares, that Amanda’s right. 

“That’s a good idea,” Amanda says. “I mean, you sound pretty fine to me. Just kind of tired. I just want to make sure you’re getting the rest you need. That seems to be the biggest thing for you.” She’s right with that, and Ian knows it, believes it. It’s a true thing. Sleep. Too much and it’s bad. Not enough and it’s bad. Not enough and it’s both a symptom and a cause. Never has a pillow held more weight than this. 

His brain rips the rest of the siding off the house. The wood is rotten underneath. He knocks the whole thing down. “I have to go,” he says. “But thanks.” He means it. He really does. “I’ll be okay.” He means it, he mostly means it. “I’ll be okay, I swear.”

*

Ian is just finishing a tune-up at a grocery store when he feels a text come through. He’s expecting Mickey, but it’s Sully. 

_I just wanted to say that I showed up to the site this morning because I wanted to deal with the glass and get it done. M is asking if you’re coming by_

Ian feels himself smile. _How casually did he play it?_

 _He didn’t look at me when he said it_ Ian can almost picture it. _So? What should I say?_

_Sorry. Too much with Bowman. I’m wiped. I can’t add anything on today._

_So I should tell him you’re so worn out that you wouldn’t even be able to come if you try? Should I say it like that and watch his face?_

Ian groans. _Ha ha. NO._

There’s nothing. Ian shuts the van up and slides into the front seat. _Just say I’m working here today. He can text me if he wants me._

_So if he wants you, like really wants you, he can get in touch?_

_I’m not talking to you anymore._

He smiles. Mickey asked about him. To someone else. He wishes he could see his face. 

Sully ends the way he always does when he wants to get under Ian’s skin. He sends a small string of random emojis that don’t mean anything, except for one. They sit in a line. Piano, dentist chair, flamenco dancer, frog, eight ball. Then the last one. The cone shooting streamers. That means orgasm. He does it every time. Ian chuckles and shoves the phone in his pocket.

*

Ian walks into his apartment and starts stripping down. God it’s hot outside. He heads for the shower and sighs when the water hits his skin. 

He didn’t hear anything from Mickey. He kept checking throughout the day. He opened up the text thread a few times, let his finger hover. He doesn’t know what to say. Did you need me? Do you want to come over? Or is it just about the site? He can’t stop thinking about it. 

He thinks about Amanda, about what she said. Maybe he should just go into the doctor after all. It’s been a little bit. Maybe he can get an adjustment so he’s not so groggy in the afternoon. He weighs the idea in his head as he shuts the water off and steps out.

He dries off. He thinks about getting into sweatpants, but changes his mind and puts jeans on. Maybe he’ll go out to get some food. He’s sick of everything here. He pulls a shirt on and heads into the kitchen. He pulls a spiral notebook from the top of the fridge. It’s a little dusty. He opens it to the last entry. November. Almost a whole year ago, when he did the last med change and had to track everything. She’s right. It was on the heels of a long summer. The last time the energy hit. It didn’t get bad, but it wasn’t right either. He turns to a fresh page and writes down the date. His pen pauses above the paper. He sets the pen down and reaches for one of his pill containers. He shakes one into his palm and swallows it down with a handful of water from the faucet. He wipes his hand dry on his pants and writes down the time, the medication. He writes down _Talked with Amanda. Said I’d see the dr_ He pauses as he wonders what else to write. He settles on a question mark after _dr_ and sets the pen down again.

There’s a little sound, and when Ian turns around he hears it again. A quiet knock, a small rap of knuckles. He glances at the mirror by the door, runs his hand through his damp hair. He takes a breath and opens the door. 

Mickey is biting his lip already, and the sight sends a thrill through him. Ian backs up but Mickey doesn’t walk in. “Hey,” Mickey says. “Thought I–I’d come over. Talk to you.” 

Ian smiles. He looks so good. He feels like he hasn’t seen him in weeks. He reaches for his waistband and pulls him inside the apartment. He closes the door and reaches for Mickey with both hands. “Don’t really feel like talking.” 

Mickey is smiling when Ian’s mouth meets his. He breaks away but allows Ian's mouth to travel along his neck. He smells like soap, a little like sweat and cigarettes, smells like Mickey. “C’mon,” Mickey protests weakly. 

“You come on,” Ian says into his neck. He bites softly, lets his tongue slide into it. “You taste so good.” He can feel Mickey’s laugh vibrating his lips. 

Mickey pushes him off slowly. “I wanna talk about this.” He’s smiling, but there is something tight in his eyes. “I think we gotta talk about what's going on with this." 

“With what,” Ian says quietly. “Us?” 

Mickey looks him up and down. He nods.

Ian's hands reach for him again, pulling at his hands. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.” 

Mickey gives an exaggerated groan, smiling, sliding closer, letting Ian’s hands wander. “You have, huh?” 

“Mmhmm,” Ian hums, hands sliding over his ass and pulling him closer. 

Mickey huffs out a laugh. “Thinkin’ of me like what.”

Ian pulls at him harder, fingers sliding lower, a slow subtle circle of his hips against Mickey’s. “Like this.” 

“Yeah? What’re you gonna do, huh?” Mickey’s voice is low and challenging, his lip cocked into a smirk. 

Ian drops away from him, steps away. An idea forms, and it makes Ian’s stomach flip. “What do you want me to do?” 

“Whaddya think, genius.” Mickey steps closer but Ian steps away again. He can see the tick of confusion in his eyes, a little squint. 

Ian licks his lips. “I asked,” he says, trying to even his breathing, trying to tell Mickey what he means by his breath, his lips, his eyes. “I asked what you want me to do.” 

There is a weight in the air. Mickey’s eyes close and open. His eyes fall to Ian’s jeans, and that’s all Ian needs. He puts his hands behind his back, like he did when he was playing army. _At ease, soldier._ But that wasn't exactly at ease. It was still attentive, waiting, ready. Just like his body is doing now, waiting for Mickey’s lips to move. 

Mickey sighs deeply. He slowly closes in on him, hand sliding up against Ian’s neck. His voice is so low Ian can hardly hear it. “I want you to take my fucking pants off. Then I want you to take _your_ fucking pants off. Then I’ll suck your dick.” Ian’s breath hitches at that, but Mickey pulls him tighter. “I’m gonna suck your dick _as long as I want._ Then I wanna get you in me.” His grip tightens. “Then we talk. Sound good?” 

“Yeah,” Ian breathes fast, mind swimming, body responding. “Yeah, sounds really good.” 

“Good,” Mickey says, pushing Ian toward his bed. He reaches for Ian’s hands and guides them to his pants. Ian's fingers pull and fumble. He feels hungry. He slides Mickey's pants down as far down as he can, leaning forward to press his face against his boxers, the growing fullness there. Mickey steps away and lets Ian’s head sway out, lets his mouth chase him, breath hard. He steps out of his pants the rest of the way, but leaves his boxers on, just out of Ian’s reach. Ian watches as Mickey pulls off his shirt, revealing his wide pale chest, three of Ian’s marks fading. A little sound falls out of Ian’s mouth. 

“Now you,” Mickey says, voice low, breathing uneven. Ian leans back on the bed to work his belt off, unzips himself and pulls his pants down. “Boxers too,” Mickey says. Ian raises his hips again and slips them off. “Good,” Mickey murmurs. “That looks good.” 

Ian gasps as Mickey pulls his shirt off, one hand brushing against his chest, just a little, a swipe at a nipple as he pulls his hand away and throws Ian’s shirt to the ground. “Mickey,” he whispers. His eyes pull up and down Mickey’s body, tripping over the swollen line in his boxers. “Please. Take your boxers off.” 

Mickey shakes his head playfully. “Why?” He steps closer to Ian, close enough that when Ian’s hands reach for him they slide up against his chest easily, reaching for his neck, trying to pull him down. Mickey resists, smirking. 

“I wanna see it,” Ian whispers. 

“Yeah?” 

Ian nods. Mickey starts to slide them off, his erection caught and then freed, and Ian moans. He leans forward again, mouth open. His hands reach too, sliding up Mickey's ass and his back and slowing beginning to pull, panting hard. Mickey bends back again. 

Mickey’s hands slide into his hair. “Uh-uh. I told you what I wanted.” He starts to lower himself to his knees. “Want you to watch me. You keep your eyes on me, you hear me?” 

The bossy tone in his voice gets Ian weak in the knees. He’s never understood that phrase until now. Weak in the knees. He’s glad he’s sitting down. He swears he gets harder just from this. This voice Mickey has right now. “Okay,” he stammers. “Okay, I will.” 

“Fuckin’ right you will,” Mickey says. He’s breathing hard. He reaches for his face, kissing him rough and deep. It’s never been easy for Ian to let someone else take control when it comes to sex. He’s never quite sure if it’s his overall tendency to be extremely impatient or the fact that he’s so dedicated to topping. That's how it's been, before.

But this thing–Mickey’s voice right now, Mickey’s voice murmuring _good_ as Ian sits back, eyes closed, dizzy– this thing is a different plane altogether. This is Mickey, some part of Mickey he's seen glimmers of before, some part of Mickey Ian didn't know he needed so badly until right now. 

His chest heaves as Mickey backs away. He can hardly breathe. With his eyes closed, he can smell better. Smell the smell of Mickey’s skin. That soap smell. A shower he took before coming over. Cleaning himself. Fuck. That’s probably what he was doing. Fuck. The cigarette he smoked on the way over. The smell of Mickey’s skin, the smell of his armpits, his thighs. Ian moans as he feels Mickey’s eyes on him, but he can’t bring himself to open them yet. “You smell so good,” Ian says. “Mickey-” 

There is only a split second before Ian feels Mickey’s hand on his face, before they are kissing again. Ian feels lost, desperate, unsteady. Somewhere, deep in his body, he's falling. No. Wait. Not falling. Not exactly. More like drifting, but he doesn’t know which direction. He ties his thoughts to Mickey’s mouth on his, Mickey’s hand on his cheek. He ties his thoughts to Mickey’s hand, Mickey’s fingertips, fingernails, running up his leg, his thigh, his hip. He bucks, just a little, and Mickey grabs onto his hip harder. He pulls his mouth away. 

“Open your eyes,” Mickey says softly. His voice is softer, sweeter, the edge whittled down. Still, there’s a deep feeling of gentle control, soft certainty, like Mickey understands everything Ian is thinking of, everything Ian is feeling, and it’s okay. “Remember?” 

Ian nods. “I remember. I will.” 

Mickey settles more fully between Ian’s legs. “Good.” His hand falls against him, beginning to move. 

Ian fights the urge to reach for him, touch him. He squeezes the edge of the mattress. He keeps his eyes on Mickey, like he said he would. His eyes on Mickey’s open mouth, tongue slipping out to tap the corner of his mouth. He keeps his eyes on Mickey as he reaches back with his other hand to tug at his cock a few times. It’s just out of sight, but Ian imagines what it looks like right now. His mouth waters. 

Mickey’s eyes are full on his when he guides Ian into his mouth. His mouth is soft and strong. Ian’s legs open wider, and Mickey nudges closer, lower, right away. Mickey works him up and down, hand against lips. He lifts off to reach back and suck lower, tongue laving over his balls. He hasn’t done that before. Oh god. Mickey’s hand comes up to cup him as his head slides up again, up and over and down, wet and steady and perfect. Ian’s eyes are firm on Mickey’s. He feels like they are stuck on a loop. Stuck in a circle where there is nothing but this. 

Mickey takes him lower than he has before. Not too much, but it has to be a new limit. Ian knows it. “Mick,” he breathes. “You don’t have to–” 

Mickey flicks Ian in the thigh. He jumps, but Mickey stays on him. “Ow!” It stings, but he’s mostly surprised, laughing a little. He clears his throat and turns his attention back to Mickey’s wet mouth. 

He looks so good like this. It’s primal. In his mind, Ian understands that. His body doesn’t understand it. It only understands words like more, right there, like that. Mickey’s lips slide against his skin and lift off, breathing hard as he pulls him. “Love your fuckin’ dick,” Mickey pants. “Get so fuckin hard.” 

Ian moans, so loud he feels like the walls tremble around them. “Mickey.” He feels his legs shake. He tries to rip his eyes away from Mickey’s red lips, the bite of his teeth, his hand that pulls. “Oh my god. I can’t–” 

“Look at me,” Mickey says, that same firm tone of voice. “Don’t look away.” 

Ian nods. He feels that feeling again - like he’s drifting through space, like the only place he recognizes is Mickey’s hot mouth. He hears a whine and realizes it’s him. “Mickey. God, this is amazing.” 

Mickey sucks harder. Ian’s thighs are shaking so bad. Mickey drops the hand around him and grabs at the underside of Ian’s thighs with both hands. He doesn’t break off to say anything, just looks up through his eyelashes, sliding back down to that limit and up again. Ian wants to close his eyes, but he promised. 

He feels a tightening. “I can’t–” he pants. “Mickey, I’m gonna come. I can’t–if you want me to fuck you, we gotta stop. I’m–”

Mickey grips his hips now, holds his eyes tighter. Ian shakes. Mickey nods as best he can. He fights to hold himself in Mickey’s hands, Mickey’s hands that are tightening. He must taste him by now. He’s getting so close. Fuck. Fuck. What is Mickey going to do? What should he do? He can’t wait anymore. What is Mickey going to do? He should pull off. He should, right? When? How much longer? These thoughts prick pins in the thick silk of more, yes, that. Mickey’s fingers grip tighter, grip so tight his hips already ache, and Ian loves it. 

“Mickey, I’m gonna come. I’m–it’s. I’m almost–” He hears his voice like something far away, something echoing. “Mick–”

He is held by Mickey’s fingers, Mickey’s mouth. Oh god, Mickey’s going to do this. They are going to do this. His back arches, just a little, and Mickey’s mouth tightens. He turns his eyes to the ceiling, but they can’t focus. He comes with his mouth open wide, soundless, hardly breathing. 

Mickey’s fingers ease up on his hips and then flex again, first firm and then slower, softer. Ian quickly looks down, and Mickey is opening his eyes as he pulls off, hand at his mouth, wiping, clearing his throat. His eyes are hooded and his mouth is swollen. Ian reaches down to slide against his cheeks, down his neck and shoulders, around his back. He pulls Mickey up on the bed, holding him tighter, easing him onto his back. He leans over him, his bright eyes, his breath. He feels Mickey so hard against his leg. He slips his lips to Mickey’s neck and nuzzles there, finds his ear. “You okay?” 

Mickey nods against Ian's cheek. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’m for sure okay.” 

Ian grabs onto his mouth with his own, a full, firm kiss, swiping into Mickey’s mouth, kissing harder as Mickey’s hands slide up his arms and around his back. He pulls him closer. “Can I–” he says. “Did you still want to?” 

Mickey chuckles. “You ready to go again? That’s some serious bounce-back, man, even for you.” 

Ian laughs. “Not yet,” he says. “But I’ll get there.” 

“Yeah?” 

Ian nods. “You think about what else you want? Whaddya wanna do now, Mick?” 

Mickey pulls his head closer, mouth finding his ear. Whispering. His fingers are sliding into Ian’s hair, pulling lightly. He finishes his whispered plan and kisses the space below Ian’s ear. Fuck. 

“That okay?” Mickey asks, a hint of uncertainty between kisses on his neck. 

Ian feels his wide eyes, his pounding heart. He feels his mind being reeled in, like that silk winding up again, like it’s stuffed back into his head. He kisses him hard, hand sliding down Mickey’s rising leg. “Uh,” Ian says, small laugh. “Um, _yes_ that is definitely okay.” Mickey grins, and Ian can feel himself slowly getting hard again. “Come here.” 

*

There’s a noise in the kitchen, and it wakes Ian up with a start. 

He sees Mickey turn. “Fuck, sorry.” He picks up a pan from the floor. There’s nothing on it, but Mickey’s standing with a spoon. 

Ian stretches in bed. “Mmm,” he hums. “That’s okay.” 

Mickey turns his attention to a bowl. “Why don’tcha get up.” 

Ian eyes the coffee pot, but he can think of better things. “Why don’t you come back instead?” 

“Because it’s time to get up. Gotta talk.” 

Right. Talk. Ian rolls slowly out of bed and makes his way over to the kitchen. Mickey’s cutting up bananas, the blade of the dull knife touching his finger with every swipe. Ian watches him as he reaches for a coffee mug. 

Mickey glances over quickly, and then turns again. He smirks. “Forget somethin’?” 

Ian looks down at himself, naked. “Nope.” He fills the coffee cup and leans against the counter. 

“Heh,” Mickey says. He turns on the burner on the stove. It click click clicks and then lights. He looks back in his bowl. “Pancakes,” he says. “You want banana?” 

“Sure,” he says, cup to his lips. He watches Mickey’s hand rest above the pan, trying to gauge the heat. He scoops up some batter and pours it in. 

“So,” Mickey says to the pan. “We never did get to talkin’.” 

Ian laughs under his breath. “Ran out of time. You had a lot of ideas last night.” 

Mickey’s ears look red. He looks over his shoulder. “You complaining’?” 

“Fuck no.” 

“Good.” 

Mickey flips the pancake over. Ian gets closer, hand sliding up his back. “Smells good,” he says. Mickey bends his head, exposing his neck. Ian nuzzles there, breathing deeply. Mickey’s eyes don’t leave the pan, but he smiles. 

“I’m gonna burn ‘em,” he pushes out. “I’m not making these over. This is a one-time fuckin opportunity.” 

Ian backs off with a sigh. “I see.” He swipes his hand over Mickey’s neck. “You have a hickey on the back of your neck, by the way.” 

Mickey freezes. “I fuckin do not.” There’s an edge of panic in his voice. 

Ian swallows. Shit. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he mostly means it. “You do.” 

Mickey groans and shakes his head. He flops two pancakes onto the plate. “Fuck. Okay, this is a problem.” He pours more batter into the pan. Ian sees his shoulders tense.

“I’m sorry,” Ian says again. He remembers last night, remembers his lips against Mickey’s neck, Mickey’s arm reaching back, pressing his mouth in harder. _“Oh fuck, suck harder.”_ The sound of Mickey’s voice when he did, the sound of Mickey’s voice when Ian finally pulled away with a gasp and turned him over. These are things they don’t often about when it’s happening. The bruises and the words and the teasing. It’s become it’s own dance, it’s own being, easy as air. 

Mickey flips the pancakes over. “I liked it,” he said. “You know that.” He scatters bananas, doesn’t turn around. “Just never think about after. How the fuck am I supposed to spin this to the guys? You think they’ll believe some chick did this to me? Why the fuck would she be behind me?”

Ian sighs. “People have sex all sorts of ways, Mickey. You don’t owe anyone an explanation.” 

Mickey flops the pancakes on the plate. "Two okay?” 

He doesn’t meet Ian’s eyes when he turns around. “Sure.” He walks with his plate to the table, and Mickey follows suit. They forgot the silverware, so Ian goes back.

“Can you please put some pants on?” Mickey says, gaze zeroed in. “Fucking distracting.” The corner of his lip ticks up. He takes a drink of his coffee and his eyebrows pull up. “Should go look at your hips, man.” 

Ian looks down. He can feel them. He can mostly see them. He’ll imagine the rest. “I like them like this.” 

Mickey breaks off a piece of pancake, smirks. “Maybe next time I’m blowing you you’ll listen better.” 

He laughs. “Fine, I’ll get some pants.” He crosses into the space with his bed and dresser. 

“Cover up all of it,” Mickey says between bites. “All of it.” 

“You don’t have much confidence in your own self-control,” Ian says, pulling a shirt over his head. 

“Fucking look at yourself,” Mickey grunts. 

“Look at _your_ self.” 

"Eat your fuckin pancake."

They chew quietly. Ian feels a flip in his stomach. There's a reason. He sets his fork down. 

"What's wrong," he says. "What did you wanna talk about?" 

Mickey doesn't look at him. He drinks his coffee. "Think we should cool it off a bit." 

Ian's mouth drops. He doesn't know what to say. 

"Hold on," Mickey stumbles. "C'mon, let me explain." 

Ian shakes his head, leans back from the table. "Why did you–I mean last night we? Like, that was really intense."

Mickey nods. “I know, I know. It was.” 

“You can’t tell me that you didn’t want to do that. I’ve never seen you so into it. The things you were doing? The way you sounded? The way we–”

Mickey reaches for his hand, but Ian pulls back. "I know," he says. "I know. It's not like we gotta quit. Just think we'll start gettin careless. Guys are gonna find out. Already spend too much talkin' as it is."

"Are you serious?" Ian means it. It's confusing. It's paranoid. It hurts. "I mean, we just started. I know we have to be careful. I get that. I don’t get what’s–like, what does cooling off mean? You mean you don’t want to have–” 

“No,” Mickey interrupts. “No, not–” He takes a deep breath. “No, I don’t want to stop...that.” 

There is a heat in Ian's eyes, an ember he can't hold back. “What, fucking?” Ian fights to keep his voice even, but he’s yelling on the inside. He learns back, crossing his arms. “Because you don’t want me to stop fucking you, that’s for damn sure. I know for a _fact_ you don’t want me to stop fucking you. You don’t want us to stop sucking each other off. You don’t want me to stop sticking my fingers–” 

“Stop!” Mickey shouts it. “You're not fucking listening to me!” 

Ian shouts over him. “No! What does it mean? How can you-I mean you can't just say-" Ian's teeth clench. He tries to even his voice, and mostly succeeds. He takes a deep breath. Relax. "Just, what does this mean? You want to what, stop kissing? Stop calling it sex? Want me to stop fucking you slow? Because I don’t want to do that. You love that.” 

Mickey’s eyes race across Ian’s face. He’s breathing hard, shaking his head. “Ian.” 

Ian puts his head in his hands. “What is it you want? You want me to do what all those fucking asshole guys did to you? How they’d just bend you over and shove their dicks in dry? That really the kind of relationship you want to have?” 

“Fuck off!” Mickey says. “What’re,” his voice drops, mumbles. His eyes race around the room. “What’re you talkin’ about. Relationship.” 

Ian closes his eyes. “Remember when you said ‘us’?,” he begins. “I thought you meant it. Like it was gonna be okay."

Mickey sighs. “I guess–” he begins. “I guess that’s what I mean. It’s just...it’s just. I don’t know how to do this. I want to be with you. I do. It’s just…” 

Ian feels himself shutting down. Someone running around inside an old house slamming all the doors. “I don’t get this,” he says. 

It’s quiet. Mickey breathes in and out. Ian watches his chest rise and fall. “Look," Mickey says finally. "Those guys,” he says. “You're right.” His eyes flutter up to find Ian’s. “They’d just do that. Bend me over and do all that. Wasn’t like this. Wasn’t like what you can do.” 

Ian’s face softens. “Wasn’t like what _we_ can do.” 

Mickey gives a quick nod. “The thing with those guys is...it was like that. What you said. But then it was over. Then just me sore for a couple days. Never saw them again. Didn’t get in the way of me livin’ and workin’ and doin’ all my shit.” 

Ian bites his words back. He can feel something, feel Lip’s words, feel Sully’s words. _Just chill the fuck out. Listen. Listen._ He can’t help it. It hurts too much. “I’m getting in the way?” 

Mickey swallows. “No, it’s just–” He breathes deeply. “The thing about you is, I gotta get by you when I see you.” 

“Get by me?” 

“Yeah,” he says to his lap. “Get over by where you are. Wanna be next to you. Want to, you know.” 

Ian nods. “So you mean like, when we’re at work, you–” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, I just wanna get by you. Trying to just tell you that I need to stay back. Need your help. Stayin' away. Feel like someone’s gonna find out. Don’t know if I’m hiding it good.” 

Ian shrugs. “I think you’re doing fine,” he says. “But I know what you mean. I’m sorry, I just...over-react.” 

“No,” Mickey says. “I wasn’t sayin’ it right.” 

They sit. The syrup on his plate is cold, but Ian swipes his finger there anyway. He brings it to his mouth. 

“Sweet?” Mickey asks. 

Ian nods. “Yeah.” He smiles and reaches out for Mickey’s hand. “It’s really sweet.” 

“That’s gay.” 

“You’re gay.” 

They laugh. 

“So my sister,” Mickey says. “It’s okay if my sister knows?” 

Ian nods. “Don’t know how much choice I have with that one.” He grins at Mickey. “But yeah, it’s great. I’d love to, you know, get to know her better.” 

Mickey shrugs. “She’s pretty much like how you saw.” He drains the rest of his coffee. “Who’d you tell?” 

“Who says I told?” 

“You sayin’ you didn’t?” 

Ian clears his throat. “My sister in law. Amanda. She helps with maintaining my health schedule. You know, with the bipolar thing.” He hates saying the word, sometimes. “Just had to check in.” 

Mickey’s eyes widen. “You gettin’ sick?” 

“No,” Ian says, hand searching, holding Mickey’s eyes. “No, I’m not. Just have to check in when things get busy, or something changes. Things have been different all around lately. Just have to straighten out some changes. She’s good at kicking my ass.” 

Mickey nods. “Well, that’s good I guess.” He pushes his plate away. He looks directly into Ian’s eyes. “Who else. Don’t lie.” 

Ian fights a laugh. “You know, don’t you.” 

“Of course I know,” he barks. “You guys are like the fuckin Hardy Boys. He just looked at me yesterday and I knew he knew. He gave me a fuckin’ salute.” 

Ian’s laughing now. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t laugh.” He pulls his eyes off his plate, and his smile fades when he sees Mickey’s face, jaw shifting, eyes racing along the table. “He’s cool, Mickey. You can trust him. Sully's my best friend.” He can hear Lip’s voice in his head _I’M your best friend._ But he’s not. Not really. Not anymore. 

“Yeah?” Mickey is visibly relaxing. 

“Yeah.” He gives one last squeeze and lets go. He swipes his finger through the cold syrup again. He watches Mickey watch his mouth. 

“Finish that up,” Mickey says. “I got another idea."

Ian grins. "I've been thinking up an idea of my own." 

Mickey stands up and walks over. Ian's hands find his ass, and he looks up. Mickey is smiling at him. He bends to find his lips. “We okay?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah, we’re okay.” 

Mickey kisses him quickly. Once more, just a moment slower. "Come on," he says. "We got a little time. Let's see whose idea is better.” 

* 

The glass is out. The windows are covered with plastic. Ian can almost see through it. It’s a little cloudy, but lets the light in. He heads upstairs. He was almost done. Mickey told him there would be a copy of the updated plan up there, now that Kowalski has decided to put in another room. It’s hard not to be pissed off about having to back up and reinstall. It’s not much, though. Once again, it’s hard for Ian to put things in perspective. 

He leans over the plans. He still isn’t good at this, imagining what the place will look like once it’s completed. Mickey was right. He can envision exactly what he wants his work to look like. He can see it perfectly, right down to what it will look like when the new owners will turn things on. He can almost feel how the heat will feel, the sweaters buttoned, hands rubbing together that comes when there’s the first cold day they put the heat on. The relief that the heat works, works well, warms their limbs, joints relaxing and grateful. He imagines the snow falling outside, the naked trees, the ice. Inside, the hot air drifting from the furnace to the ducts to the vents in the ceiling, drifting down to someone asleep, to someone’s eyes slowly opening, hand reaching for whoever they love most. 

But the full scope he can’t always see. There’s a blip above the new wall that he doesn’t understand. He heads for the top of the stairs. “Hey Mick? Can I get help a sec?” 

There is new tyvek housewrap on the outside of the new room. They found another walled off window that wasn’t in the original plan, another window they have to create again. It wasn’t until Kowalski pulled some photos from the historical society that he noticed it. The brick on that one was done perfectly, unlike the one Mickey pointed out. 

The room feels like an awkward appendage that is trying to force its way out of a box. Ian stands there for a while, looking up. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. It doesn’t sound like his real voice. It’s clipped, curt, rough. “What do you want?” 

Ian feels his eyebrows press against each other. He opens his mouth to speak but Mickey gestures toward one of the rooms next to them. Ian can hear Danny pounding on something. Ian takes a deep breath and crosses his arms. “I’m–I just don’t really get this new room plan. Where am I supposed to patch in? It’s gonna mess up the flow I have started.” 

“You’re gonna have to redo all this,” Mickey says. His voice is harsh. “Just like all that part there. The stuff over there,” he gestures again. “That can stay.” 

Ian sighs. “That’s gonna be two days. I’m gonna have to make more rigid. I’m gonna need more hours here.” Way back in his head, he hears Amanda’s voice. _Twelve hours. You need at least twelve hours._ He tries to add more hours in his head. He sighs again. 

“I’ll have Kowalski call Bowman. We’ll figure it out.” His voice is softened, just slightly. He stiffens it up again. “You’ll figure it out.” 

Ian shakes his head. He turns his face away so Mickey can’t see his scowl. He bends down and reaches for his sawzall. His upper arms ache, just like his hips. It’s another life, here. 

“Hey,” Mickey says quietly. “Don’t call me Mick. Not here.” 

Ian nods. He doesn’t turn around. “Fine.” 

“Look.” Mickey takes a step forward and turns to face him. “You know how this’s gotta be. We just been over this.” 

Ian switches the blade he needs. “I know,” he says. “I heard you.” 

Mickey just stands there. His eyes search Ian’s until Ian stands up and climbs the step ladder, face away from him. “How’s your neck doing,” Ian says quietly. They had stopped at a CVS on the way over. Mickey was too embarrassed to go in, so Ian had to. It was Mickey’s idea to get the makeup. _I watched Mandy. She used a lot of this shit. Cause of my dad. Got good at it. Too good._ But Mickey’s never worn this. Ian can tell he hates the idea, and not for the reason Ian does. Part of Ian sunk as he helped him cover the large deep mark on the back of his neck. When it was deemed good enough, Mickey said he’d keep his back to the wall as much as he could. 

Mickey shrugs and turns around. “I don’t know,” he says. “I can’t see it.” 

Ian sees it smudged, just a little. “It’s a little smudged,” he says. “Not too bad.” It’s the truth. But the day is young. It’s not as hot yet. 

Micked nods. “You still got it in your pocket?” 

Ian nods. He starts to set up his stepladder. 

Mickey puts a hand out. “Give it over,” he says. 

Ian fishes in his pocket and pulls out the small bottle. Mickey takes it and gives it a shake. “You stay up here today,” Mickey says. 

Ian turns his head to the ducts in the ceiling. He flexes his finger against the saw’s start button, listens to it whirr and quiet. “Fine,” he says softly. “Fine.” 

He turns in time to see Mickey headed out of the room, the smudge on the back of his neck, Ian’s mouth erased. 

* 

By the time Ian comes downstairs, it’s nearly noon. He heads to the porta john and then to Mickey’s van. He opens the door and looks for another t-shirt. It’s hot upstairs and he’s soaking through it. He yanks his shirt off behind the open door. He winces as his hips twist and bend to retrieve the other shirt. It gives him a little thrill, just like looking down and seeing Mickey’s mark on his chest. His back hurts. He’s never had this much proof of sex before. Aching back. Aching arms. The effort of holding himself up, being held, moving against someone. Against Mickey. It’s intoxicating. 

Ian can feel eyes, and he turns to see Mickey glancing over. When their eyes meet, Mickey quickly looks back to the other copy of the new plans on the sawhorses. Ian breathes deeply and closes the door. 

Danny comes out with a bunch of crap and tosses it into the dumpster. “Hey,” he says, walking up to Mickey’s back. “Can you come take a look at that back room?” Ian watches Danny walk closer, wiping his hands on his vest. He realizes too late what’s about to happen. Oh shit. Oh fuck. 

The sound of Danny’s laugh is enough to make Mickey’s head jerk up. When he turns to look at him, his eyes have the caged wildness that Ian’s learned by heart. Fuck. 

“What the hell happened to you?” Danny laughs harder. “You wearin’ makeup on that thing?” 

Mickey crosses his arms, and something clouds over and loosens, but his mouth is tight. “I got pissed off and she wanted to fix it. Knew I’d catch shit from you jokers.” 

One of the other guys–McGinley–joins him. His laugh is sharp, and it twists Ian’s stomach. “How’d she get on the back of your neck? She fuckin you with a strap on?” 

Mickey’s head jerks up. “You say one more thing like that you’re off my fucking site, you hear me?” 

McGinley’s hands raise up. “I’m pullin’ your chain, man. Jesus.” 

“Touchy, touchy,” Danny says. 

Mickey’s jaw shifts. She steps closer to Danny. “What are you tryin’ to say?” 

Danny shakes his head. “Nothin’ man. Why are you gettin’ all worked up?” 

“Because this is my fuckin’ business.” Ian’s heart pounds. He doesn’t think Mickey knows how close this is. How close he is. 

“My girlfriend got me in the back of the next once,” McGinley volunteers. “Tryin’ to wake me up.” 

Mickey nods. “Ex-fucking-actly.” He crosses his arms. “You done?” 

“What kind of man would wear makeup to a construction site?” Danny says, laughing. 

Ian pushes his body off the van. “Probably the kind of man that doesn’t want to deal with you fucking assholes.” 

Mickey’s snaps in Ian’s direction. “Who asked you?” 

Ian crosses his arms and steadily makes his way towards them. “I’m the one having to hear this shit.” He turns to Danny and McGinley. “Just leave him alone.” 

Mickey’s panicked eyes press onto his when he turns back, pleading please, pleading stop.

“What’s it to you?” Danny says. “You into makeup?” 

The three of them laugh at him. Ian gets closer, sets his jaw. “What are you trying to say?” 

McGinley shakes his head. “Whaddya mean? I’m not sayin’ shit!” 

“Just say it,” Ian says, crossing fast, pressing into McGinley’s space. “What the fuck are you trying to say?” 

“Jesus,” McGinley says. “What’s your problem?” He pushes Ian off with both hands, but Ian grabs at one. 

“Don’t fucking touch me,” he says. 

“What’s wrong with him,” Danny says, his audience unclear. “Acting like a jealous girlfriend. You wanna be his girlfriend, Gallagher?”

It hangs there in the air, just a second. Mickey chuckles. “He wishes he was my girlfriend. I need a better rack than he has, for one thing.” 

Danny and McGinley laugh. “I’m an ass man,” Danny says. 

“That too,” laughs Mickey. He turns back to Ian. “Why don’t you mind your own business, huh? Don’t you got work to do?” 

Ian huffs, shaking his head. He tries to focus on his breathing. Fight or flight. Fight or flight. He wants to fight. He needs to fight. He can almost hear his fist cracking against Danny’s cheek. Breathe in, breathe out. He backs off them. He spits on the ground, catching Mickey’s eye. “Fuck you,” Ian says. “All of you.” 

Mickey follows him. For a minute, Ian thinks he is going to follow him in, calm him down, apologize. But he stays in the yard. “Get the fuck off my site, Gallagher. Come back tomorrow when you’ve calmed down.” 

Ian turns to face him. “Are you fucking serious?” Fight or flight. Fight or flight. His hands curl into fists. He steps closer. 

Mickey backs up. “Yes. I’m fucking serious.” 

Ian shakes his head. “Okay,” he says. “Fine,” he says. He starts to back off, shaking his head. 

He crosses the yard, past where Danny stands in front of McGinley. “Faggot,” Danny says under his breath. 

Ian can’t see. He doesn’t think. All he can feel is his fist against skin. All he can feel is adrenaline, fight or flight, fight or flight, and he’s fighting. He sees blood from Danny’s lip. He sees Danny’s fist before it hits, but it hits anyway. He feels McGinley pulling Ian back. He sees Mickey standing there, mouth open. _Not such a man now, are you? You think you’re a man? You’re not. You’re a coward._ Ian wants to say it. Wishes he could say it. He tries to say it with his eyes. 

McGinley says, “Hey, easy.” He tightens his grip on Ian’s forearm. “It’s okay.” 

Ian has blood in his mouth. He spits on the ground. Danny’s eye is already showing a bruise. “It’s not fucking okay,” Ian says through his split and swollen lip. “You say that again. Say it again.” 

Danny shakes his head. 

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, you know what? I _am_ a fucking faggot. I am.” He sees McGinley’s mouth open, but his eyes are on Danny. “You wanna say it again?” He tries to pull himself out of McGinley’s arm, but he tightens again, pulls against him, tries to pull Ian back. “I look like I have a limp fucking wrist to you?

“N-no,” Danny says. 

Ian wrestles against McGinley’s hand. 

“Gallagher!” Mickey’s voice is sharp, so sharp it feels like it’s a blade in Ian’s stomach. “I said to get the _fuck_ off my site. Now. Right now. Leave your tools. Leave all your shit. Just leave. Now.” 

McGinley lets Ian’s arm go, this time. Ian backs up, spitting on the ground again. He glares at Mickey, then he’s walking down the street, walking fast. He still feels that adrenaline coursing through him. He breaks into a run. He takes the stairs to the el two at a time and squeezes in a closing door. He feels an old lady’s eyes on him. He can picture himself, sweaty and bleeding, eyes wild. He’s been this way, before. He knows the feeling. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. Shit. 

He feels something in his brain. That panic feeling when he doesn’t know if what he feels is how normal people feel, or if it’s his broken, busted, stupid mistake of a brain. Stupid. So fucking stupid. Stupid mistake, wasted space. His hips hurt, his hands hurt, everywhere feels swollen. Used up.

He pulls out his phone. His hands shake. He puts the phone in his lap and opens and closes his hands, breathing deeply until he starts to still. He picks it up again. Begins to type.

_What’s up?_

He watches the little bubble, the promise of someone typing. _Hey stranger!_

His eyes burn. He’s not going to cry on the fucking train. 

_You working tonight?_

_Yeah. You wanna come by? Everything ok?_

_I don't know. How's Ben feeling?_

There's a pause. The doors open and close. Another text comes through. 

_We broke up_

Ian looks at the phone. His finger rises and then comes back to rest in his lap. He's about to type when Tom comes through again.

 _So what do you say? Wanna pay me a visit?_ There's an emoji. A wink.

Ian's breath draws in sharply. His lip hurts. He stares at his phone. It could be so easy. So easy if he got hypomanic - if he could will himself there, a place with no fear. He wonders how long it would take to push himself there. The place that feels so good. No pain or doubt. The purple lights. Dancing. Finding someone to take into the bathroom. Or waiting for Tom. Going home with him. Does he still have the apartment by that Chinese restaurant with the fountain? Or was that left behind with Ben? He thinks of Tom. He can remember him like that. How good it was. He remembers more than he thought he did. 

It could be easy. Easy if hypomania would take the wheel, lean over and say "I got this one. You just lean back. I'll take of everything." It could be so easy. Just stop that pill, then stop the other, then the other. Stay up late until his brain picks up speed, a car without brakes. Snort this line. It could be easy. But it's not. It’s not easy. It’s not good. It’s not what he needs. He might hate himself right now, but not that much. 

He stares at the phone. He remembers Mickey's face. Mickey’s face in his hands. Mickey around him, everywhere. He has to squeeze his eyes shut. Stupid. He's so stupid.

He looks at Tom's words. The wink. His finger hovers. Mickey. The look on his face, right at the end. 

Ian takes a breath. No. He doesn’t want this. Why did he even do this? As fucked up as things are right now, this minute, Mickey is better than anyone else he could think of. He takes a breath and types. _I gotta stay home. Sorry. Just checking in._ He's about to put it back in his pocket before he thinks better of it. _I'm sorry about the breakup._

_Thanks._

This is hard. Having to feel things. Feel the doubt and guilt. He pictures himself writing in that notebook. He’ll write down how he fucked up. What he remembers from fighting. He’ll cross out the question mark by the dr and he’ll write it in big letters. He’s going to make sure he gets there. He doesn’t want to slide. Fight or flight. He’s going to fight. 

He looks around the train car. There’s that woman again, looking at him. Pulling her purse and grocery bag closer. A little girl holding onto her mother, pulling at her sleeve and pointing. He swallows hard and looks at his phone in his hands. 

He takes a deep breath. Fight or flight. Another kind of fight, now. He types a message to Mickey. _I'm so sorry. Please. I’m so sorry. Come over. Let me explain._

The message comes through fast. _No._

His eyes blur. He shoves the phone in his pocket.

He turns his face to the window. He watches the city roll past, people walking on the streets below. His hand hurts. His eyes burn. He feels one fall, another one, another one. He wipes his fist against his eyes. He concentrates on the graffiti on rooftops, people staking their claim over and over, people who know who they are, who know what they want.


	7. Insulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the aftermath of the fight, Ian considers his health. Mickey tries to reconnect. 
> 
> *warning: (non graphic) self-injury mention/memory. Also mentions of morning sickness/vomiting*
> 
> PLEASE SEE TAGS

The pillow is too hot, even when he flips it over. He reaches for the other one. It’s a little cooler, but pretty much the same. His whole bed is warm. He’s naked under the sheet, and when he turns over, the sheet pulls against his skin. It kind of hurts. It's kind of too much. Last night he shut the blinds, but the sun presses in around the edges. He doesn’t know what time it is, just that he’s supposed to be working, and he’s not. 

He sighs and sits up. His feet settle on the wood floor and he rises slowly to his feet. His face hurts. He crosses over to the kitchen, messes around with the coffee pot and gets a bottle of pills down. He opens the lid and pops one in his mouth, washing it down with a cupped palmful of lukewarm water from the tap. He should take some Advil. He wonders if he has any. 

There’s still a pan on the stovetop, little pieces of dried pancake batter crusted there, and on the countertop too. He half-heartedly scratches at it with a fingernail. His sore eyes blur again. He shakes his head hard. 

For the longest time, he couldn’t cry. He never considered himself much of a crier, but now and then it was all he could do to let things out. There was running, and fighting, and sex. There were the times after he was hospitalized when he burned his hand or cut his arm or punched himself in the face. There was that. 

But there was also the time with that guy when he was a teenager. The guy was closeted, just like Mickey, but Ian didn’t care, because he loved him. He loved him in the way someone loves for the first time–a feeling of almost starving, the only sustenance their lips, hands, body. He didn’t care, back then, who knew or who didn’t. He’d give himself over, again and again, even when the guy would brush him off in public. He told himself it was worth it. Worth the feeling he got when they moved together, discovering each other, breath wet and new. It didn’t matter. He was all Ian wanted. Wanted him like breathing, like water. 

Then there was the worst day. The day the guy coldly ripped himself away. It was sudden, and painful, and there was still a jagged scar buried deep in Ian’s body because of it. He woke up one day, soon after, and knew he’d never get him back. No matter how much he begged. He'd never come back to him. Not ever. It was the first time he really remembers crying. Really, deeply, purely crying. 

Crying wasn’t really a thing his family did, growing up. Not over things like that. Not loud enough to be heard, anyway. Not messy enough to really show. And _if_ they started crying, _when_ they started crying, they didn’t stop. Couldn't stop. There was too much to grieve for on top everything else. The deep rooted sadness and neglect. The desperation beyond the teasing and the squirrel fund and the shifting expectations. There was Frank, and there was Monica, and that was enough to remind them they had been crumpled up and thrown out. They held no title, no claim. Not Dad. Not Mom. Only when describing them to another person did they use those names. Even then, it felt wrong. 

So back then, after that boy, it happened. Crying. Breaking down in bed, sobbing, snot and saliva and tears a thick sheen on his face. It felt foreign to him. It was like an animal had taken hold of his body and wasn't letting go. It was hard to breathe. His head hurt. Every single part of him was sweaty and aching and strange. He wiped his face on his pillow, his blanket, mouth raw feeling and itchy. He pulled a blanket up to his nose and tried to relax it away, great gasping sobs that shuddered in his chest. He fell asleep like that, and when he woke up, he didn’t move. He didn’t get up. Lip made a joke about suicide watch. They didn’t know, then, what was coming. That wasn’t the start. Not exactly. But it’s a place where Ian slows down when he flips the dial of his memory. A window. A warning.

There’s a beep from the coffee pot, and Ian comes back to himself. He breathes deeply as he pours his cup. His eyes itch. He cried, last night. Got off the train, ran home, threw himself into bed, breath hard and aimless. He started, and couldn’t stop. He pulled himself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the water would help guide it off his cheeks. It didn’t work. It all melded together in a steady stream. He took his meds and got into bed. He fell asleep fast, exhausted and sore.

He’s not going to cry today. The knowledge he is _able_ to cry is soothing, though. For so long after the hospital, after the meds and the side effects and the stabilizing, he couldn’t cry. He felt hollowed out. It’s not like he cried often, but if something sad or desperate or beautiful happened, something in him always softened. He did not feel that softening. He didn’t feel anything. He felt disconnected from things, not quite engaged in the world. He coasted above it, expression even, throwing himself into work and waiting it out. Eventually, the meds cocktail evened, and he found himself feeling engaged again, letting things in. He kept an arm out, though. He didn’t want too much to get in, rattle him, drag him back to that place, that soft place, that caring place, that love. He didn’t want anyone to get in. Not yet. He wasn’t ready. Not yet. 

It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if he was ready. Mickey didn’t creep up on him. He didn’t slowly slide next to him. Mickey had crashed into him. Hard. Fast. Messy. Completely. And Ian had grabbed on hard with both hands, starving again, and he didn’t want to let go. 

Ian opens a drawer and takes out a kitchen towel. He lets the water run cold before he holds the towel beneath. He puts the cloth over his eyes, trying to soothe them. He probably has some eye drops somewhere, left over from the drug days. He pulls the towel off his eyes and heads for the bathroom. He doesn’t look in the mirror, just like he didn’t look in the mirror last night. He looks into the sink as his hand pulls the mirrored door away from the cabinet. There’s some Visine in here. Advil, too. He closes the cabinet. He can’t avoid himself. There he is. 

Shit. It’s not just his red, itchy eyes. The left side of his face is deeply bruised, and his lip is angry and split, barely crusted over. It kept opening up again and again last night as he sobbed. He turns toward the long mirror on the back of the door. His hips are still bruised from Mickey’s fingers. He traces them softly with his fingertips. His fingers slide up his body and circle two light marks on his chest. They are small, and won’t last long. He turns his head again and notices his jawline is bruised. The side of his neck is swollen, too. Probably why it hurts to swallow. Damn it. 

He looks at his hands, sore. He wonders how Danny looks. 

He ponders another shower, but decides against it. He pads back into the kitchen. He drinks some coffee and puts bread into the toaster. His eyes blur again and he blinks. 

It’s been two hours. Two hours since he was expected on the Emerald site. He didn’t mean to stay home. It just sort of happened. He doesn’t know if he’s supposed to go or what. He shut off his phone in an embarrassed rage last night, and hasn’t turned it back on. One of the reasons why he hasn’t turned it back on is that he knows Mickey hasn’t texted him. Or, more likely, if he did, it’s to tell him he’s fired. 

Clothes. Right. Okay, clothes. Wait, no. Notebook first. He pulls the notebook over and writes down _coffee, cinnamon toast._ He puts the pen down, butters and sprinkles his toast. He takes a bite, then a smaller bite. Maybe not toast. Protein. Eggs? He checks the fridge. He isn't hungry anyway. He takes one more bite of toast before crosses out toast, writes down _not hungry._

He turns back one, two pages. The pages from last night. It's filled with scribbled words, mostly calling himself stupid, over and over. Smeared in places. At the top of the second page he had written _FUCKING CRYING._ He sees Mickey's name in the whirlwind of black ink. He even sees that first love's name, the name he can never say out loud. _HOW THE FUCK DID THIS HAPPEN AGAIN I'M SUCH A FUCKING IDIOT._

He swallows against his aching throat and turns back to today's page. 

He writes down his stabilizer and dosage. He writes _400mg Advil - fight._ He flexes his hand again. _Face, neck, lip, hand hurt. Staying home from work?_

He puts the pen down again. He turns to last night's pages again, all that writing, all that scribbling. Suddenly he grabs at the pages and tears them out of the notebook. He rips the pages in half, in half again, and throws them in the garbage can. 

He’s just putting on boxers when there’s a knock at the door. He freezes. He winces as he pulls his shirt on. “Hello?” His voice sounds scratchy. “Who’s there?” 

“It’s me,” Sully says from the other side of the door. “Let me in.” 

There’s both relief and panic, but mostly relief. “I’m–hang on, I’m getting dressed.” He slips his jeans on. 

“Are you alone?” 

Ian squints at the door. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, of course. Why?” He opens the door as he’s buckling his belt. 

Sully leans back from the doorframe. “Woahhhh,” he says. “Fuck, man. That’s gonna be even worse tomorrow.” 

“I know. It kills.” 

Sully starts elbowing his way inside. “I gotta help you with that lip, man. Jesus.” Ian’s fingers come up, and sure enough, he can taste blood. “Go sit down at the table. You got stuff in the bathroom, right?” 

Ian nods, and Sully heads for the bathroom. Ian hesitates before he sits down. He takes a deep breath and grabs his phone, anxious as it stirs to life.

Sully comes back with some stuff in his hands. “You have quite the first aid kit up in here, Gallagher. I’ll come here next time I fuck up and hurt myself.” 

“From running,” Ian says. His eyes catch the large package of gauze, and Ian remembers treating his burned hand. The antibacterial ointment he used on his cuts. All of that seems like a dream, now. But it feels like something he wants to remember, too. So he won’t get back there. Won’t do it again. 

Sully gets close, so close. His head leans closer, focused on his lip. Ian would make a gay joke if he didn’t feel split open everywhere. Sully pokes at his lip and then rips open the gauze. “Gonna have to clean this kinda,” he says.

“Do I need a stitch?” 

Sully shrugs. “I don’t think so?” 

“Got glue in the kitchen in case.” 

Sully nods. He starts messing around with the gauze and gets some hot water and soap. Ian watches him with tired eyes. “Why are you here, Sul.” HIs voice is quiet, exhausted. 

Sully dabs the gauze around his lip. Ian winces. “I think you know that,” he says. 

“I’m not going back,” Ian mumbles around Sully’s hands. 

“Tough shit,” Sully says. “You can’t stay like this. You don’t hide from people.” 

Ian closes his eyes. Sully dabs at the bottom of his lip. “I don’t want to go back there. I’ll go back to Bowman, but I’m sure as hell not gonna go–”

“Nope!” Sully’s voice interrupts quickly, and he chases his hand back against Ian’s mouth. It’s still bleeding a little. “No way. You can’t go back to Bowman full-time without finishing up there. You’re lucky Kowalski hasn’t caught wind of this yet.” 

Ian lets Sully hold his lip. He reaches for his phone and checks for messages. There’s two texts and a missed call from Sully. Nothing else.

“He called me,” Sully says. His fingers pinch firmly, then release. “This morning when you didn’t show.” He drops back and pats Ian’s leg. “Said some shit went down.” 

Ian puts his head in his hands. He tries so speak without moving his mouth much. “He tell you what happened?” 

Sully nods. “Sorry, man.” 

Ian shrugs. He starts to add days up in his head. He needs two more days to re-work the upstairs. He needs another week to do downstairs, depending on what’s happening with the insulation. Then some wiring, depending on what he’s actually going to need to do. Maybe he can pull off the job after the hvac and someone else can do final house wiring. He shakes his head. 

“Did you go by?” 

Sully nods. “Danny aint there.” 

“Really?” Ian perks up. “How come?” 

Sully shrugs. “Same reason you’re not there?” 

Ian rubs his temple. “Mickey doesn’t even want me there.” He puts his hand down, then brings it up again. He feels a laugh or something in his throat. Some sound. Some sound like an animal about to pounce. “He doesn’t want anything from me.’ 

Sully gets closer again. “Look at me,” he says. “Look. Don’t do this. Not yet.” Ian feels his hand on the back of his neck. He’d make another joke, if things were different. But Ian relaxes into Sully’s touch, just before he drops his hand and pats him on the back.

Ian gives a little nod. “So what should I do?” 

“You get the rest of your stuff and I’ll take you over. Waiting around here’s gonna do you more harm than good.” 

Ian hesitates. “I’m–my body’s all fucked up. Everything hurts. How am I supposed to–” 

“Do what you can,” Sully interrupts, talking over him. “You show up. You hold your head up. Even if you’re there mostly petting your shit and whistling, and least you showed up. You’re better than this.” 

Ian crosses his arms, dropping them again when he backs up, digging under the bed for his shoes and yanking them on. He clenches his teeth. _Better than this._ Another person eager to tell him what he can and can’t do. Another person who claims to know him better than he does. He wonders why he’s been so guarded the last couple years. It’s reasons like this. This bullshit. He jerks his head up to meet Sully’s gaze as he rises from his bed. 

“Oh, come on,” Sully groans. “Don’t do the fuckin’ chin. You know what I mean.” 

Ian shrugs. “You see my vest?” 

Sully exhales loudly. “Over there.” He points toward the kitchen. He squints. “So’re you doin’ the notebook?” 

Ian feels his anger softening. He cares. Sully does. He always has. _It’s about letting people help you, Ian._ He hears his doctor’s voice in his head. _It’s about building a ladder. Maybe like a scaffolding. People you trust to help you. People you’ll listen to._

“Yeah,” Ian says quietly. “Yeah, I’m doing the notebook.” 

Sully nods. “You want my truck for the doctor?” 

Ian shakes his head. “No,” he says. “I can take the train.” 

“When are you–” 

“Haven’t called yet.” Ian grabs his phone and pats for his wallet. “You ready?” 

*

The first person he sees isn’t Mickey. McGinley’s out in the yard, and he stares as Sully pulls up. Ian meets his eyes as Sully puts the truck in park. 

McGinley gets closer when Ian opens the door. “Hey Gallagher,” he says. His voice is hard to understand. Something open and empty. He extends a hand. “You okay?” 

Ian clenches his teeth, but he takes his hand with a short nod. “Sure.” 

McGinley squeezes his hand a little harder, before Ian’s painful wince makes him drop it. “Sorry,” McGinley says quickly, and Ian doesn’t know if he’s apologizing for squeezing his hand too hard or for all of it, everything. He nods again and heads toward the house. 

It’s noisy inside. He doesn’t see Mickey. A couple of the guys look in his direction and then look away. He’s about to go upstairs when he sees Mickey walk in from the kitchen. Ian turns quickly and heads up the staircase, two at a time. 

Did he really just run away from him? He did, but he doesn’t give a shit. He turns his attention to his work. He gets out the sawzall again. He’s about to start cutting when Mickey walks into the room. 

Mickey’s eyes are searching and soft. Ian feels them over every part of his face. “Fuck,” Mickey says under his breath. “Are you okay?” 

Ian huffs out a laugh. “Uh,” he says. “No, Mickey. No, I’m not okay.” 

Mickey takes a step closer. “I should have–” he starts. He stares at Ian’s lip, his busted lip. “I just–I’m sorry.” 

Ian shrugs. “It’s over.” 

Mickey nods. “Good. That’s what Danny said. He came earlier. Sent him home. He smelled like whiskey.” He itches the back of his neck. “Said he felt bad. Said he’d leave you alone. Just forget about it. Keep working.” 

Ian looks down at his hand. “Mick,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.” He clenches and unclenches his hand. He feels the burn at the edges of his eyes.

Mickey’s mouth is open when Ian meets his eyes. He shifts from foot. “Ian, I said I was–” 

Ian shakes his head hard. “I can’t.” He blinks hard. Clears his throat. “I can’t now. That was just...I can’t.” 

Mickey shifts his jaw. His voice is strained. “Just like that?” He takes another step closer. “We’re just–”

Ian nods. He blinks faster. “I’ll stay to finish this up,” he says. “The ductwork. Sully said you’re getting insulation ready. I’ll have to work longer days if that’s okay. I’m thinking that you might want to get someone to run the rest of the electrical. I don’t know if I can stay for that.” He busies himself with the tools left out. 

Mickey doesn’t say anything, and Ian doesn’t look back. He clears his throat again. There’s movement, and Ian looks up. Mickey is standing there, looking down where Ian crouches. “You don’t have to do this.” 

Ian stands. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.” 

“I’ll talk to Kowalski,” Mickey says. “Maybe he can take me off the job for a couple weeks. Maybe–” 

“No,” Ian says, more firmly. He gets closer. Almost too close. Close enough that he wants to sigh, close his eyes, and reach for him. “No. Don’t do that.” 

Something happens. Mickey’s weight shifts back and forth. He steps closer. “I said I was sorry,” he says, softly. Mickey’s hand comes out, and Ian’s too busy wondering what he’s doing, what he’s doing with his hand here, where anyone can see, to stop him. Mickey slides the back of his hand against Ian’s. He drags it slowly, letting his fingers brush Ian’s. It’s so soft. Ian’s breath speeds up, just a little. Just enough. 

He sighs. “It’s not enough to be sorry,” he says. “You just stood there and let it happen.” He swallows. God his throat hurts. “You didn’t have to,” he drops his voice. “You didn’t have to come out or anything like that. But you just stood there. Laughing with them.” It’s too much, him talking like this. It should be easy. Easy to say _No. Over. Done._ But part of him just doesn’t believe that.

“I know,” Mickey mumbles. “And I’m an asshole. And I was worried as shit about you.” 

Ian blinks fast, but one escapes. Two, three. He meets Mickey’s eyes. “Then why didn’t you come find me?” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything. He opens and closes his mouth. Everything softens. He opens his mouth again. “Ian, I’m–” 

There’s clatter in the next room. They freeze. Mickey doesn’t move. Ian waits, but then heads out. He sees McGinley with some insultation, setting things down in the next room. McGinley meets his eyes right away.

“What,” Ian says. He hopes his damp eyes aren’t giving him away. “You need something?” 

McGinley stares at him, glancing somewhere over his shoulder. He knows. Does he know? Who cares. Who fucking cares. “Nah,” he says. “I’m good, man. You?” 

Ian nods and ducks back into the room. Mickey is still frozen there, eyes roaming over the framed walls, plastic pulled down and stapled inside. Ian drags his stepstool over, ignoring Mickey’s shaking stance. “Move,” he says. His voice sounds hollow. 

“Did he,” Mickey says quietly, eyes racing over Ian’s. “Did he hear us?” 

Ian looks up. He’ll have to cut this rigid right here to add more on. He picks up the sawzall, runs the blade a couple of times. He looks down and runs the blade long enough to mutter “Does it fucking matter?” 

Mickey bites his cheek. Those beautiful lips slip to Mickey’s left, and Ian has to tear himself away. Focus. He marks a couple of lines and then reaches around on his neck for his protection goggles. He glances down and Mickey’s still staring at him. 

Ian runs the blade in the air again. “Look, I’m behind and need to catch up.” 

Mickey glances to the doorway and then reaches for Ian’s shin. He squeezes it lightly, stepping closer. His head sways a little. His other hand reaches for Ian’s foot on the ladder. “Shit,” Ian whispers under his breath. 

Mickey squeezes just a little harder. Ian looks down at him. His eyes are blue and soft, wide open, firm on his, a slight tremble in the corners. He doesn’t say anything. Ian feels his limbs softening. In his mind he steps off the stool, takes Mickey softly in his sore arms, his aching hand sliding up to hold Mickey’s head, broken lips reaching. Kissing him softly, trying not to open up too much, trying to keep the wounded part of him safe. But he’d fail, he knows he’d fail. He’d want to give Mickey everything, all of him. Holding nothing back. 

There’s another noise in the other room, and Mickey backs away, hands on his hips. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Okay.” 

Ian shakes his head. “Okay.” He gestures with the saw. “I have to cut now. You have protective eyewear, foreman?” He tries to pull the sharp edge from his voice, the sarcasm, but he can’t. 

Mickey grits his teeth. “No,” he says. 

Ian reaches above him. His saw finds the marked space and he begins to cut. When the metal comes apart under his hand, Mickey’s gone. 

*

It was a matter of pride that Ian didn’t complain about his aching arms, his aching hands. He pushed and pushed himself. He didn’t take a lunch break. He didn’t speak to Mickey again. He didn’t talk to anyone, not even Sully.

When Sully wants to leave, Ian pleaded to stay just a little bit longer, just maybe help him a little bit. He wants to be finished, finish so quickly. Tomorrow he’ll figure out downstairs. Double check everything, but unless some major change has happened, he has everything marked and ready to cut. He can do all that tomorrow if he busts his ass and stays late. If he skips Bowman the day after that, he can get some major headway. Mickey has been so distracting this whole time. Now he can be focused. There is a little echo in his body when he tells himself that. A little echo like someone laughing way down the street, a cloudy silhouette. 

They are still working like that, together, until Mickey comes up to find them. “Hey,” he says. “Hey, I gotta let you guys out.” 

Ian’s back is to him, and he doesn’t turn around. Sully is in front of Ian, holding the sheeting, meeting Ian’s eyes quickly. 

“C’we have like 20 more minutes?” Sully asks. 

“Not really.” 

“C’mon man,” Sully says. “You wanna help? It’ll go fast.” 

Ian glares at Sully. Sharp and desperate, but Sully says “chill” under his breath. Just low enough to soothe, but just loud enough that Mickey will hear it too. 

“Sure,” Mickey says, quietly. “Whaddya want me to do?” 

Ian passes over a piece of paper. “Measure these out on the flex.” He doesn’t look up. 

“D’you want me to cut ‘em?” 

Ian shrugs. “Depends how fast you mark.” He gestures up to Sully. “Eyes.” 

Sully reaches around his neck and pulls the safety goggles on. He adjusts his gloves and holds the metal sheeting tighter as Ian picks up his saw. 

“Wait wait wait,” Mickey says. “You can’t do that when I’m in here without my eyes on.” 

“You’re the one who came in,” Ian says. “You’re free to get out.” 

Mickey gets closer. “Look,” he says, voice firm and angry. “You don’t wanna hang out with me, that’s fine. You need to deal with me here, though. Not gonna have someone get hurt on the job because you hate me.” 

Something softens in Ian, then. Something he can hardly touch with his fingers, his fingers in these gloves, against this metal. “I don’t–” he says, and he feels Sully’s eyes nudging him over. He turns to face Mickey, kind of. “I don’t _hate_ you.” 

Mickey shifts from foot to foot. “You–” 

“I don’t know what I feel,” Ian says. “I don’t really feel anything.” 

Mickey doesn’t speak. He digs around in Ian’s tool bucket and finds some safety glasses. He gestures toward Ian, and Ian nods. He slips them on. 

“Go ahead,” Sully says, and Ian begins to cut. The shrill noise is welcoming. It sounds like Ian’s mind, racing, screaming. Screeching that he thought things were going to be different this time. 

Before long, Ian has cut all the rest he’ll need. He’s ahead of his own schedule. That’s good. He starts to pack up, and Mickey is still measuring and marking. 

“I can stick around,” Mickey says. “Keep marking for you if you want.” 

Ian shakes his head. No. “I’ll do it tomorrow.” 

“Thanks though,” Sully says in his place. He starts to sock Ian in the arm, but stops just in time, remembering how sore he is. He nudges Ian instead. “Don’t need to forget your manners, asshole.” 

“That’s okay,” Mickey says quietly. “I don’t blame him.” 

Ian stares at him. “I’m standing right here,” he says. “I’m in the fucking room. Don’t talk about me like I’m not here.” He tosses his saw on the floor. He doesn’t care if it breaks, but it doesn’t. It just sort of clatters there, breaking the quiet. 

“I’ll be in the car,” he says. “I’m done.” 

* 

Ian hates when people talk about him like he isn’t in the room. They did that at the doctor’s office last year when he showed up manic. Just a touch beyond hypomanic, just about to gallop over that line. He showed up just manic enough to be visibly agitated in a way he couldn’t fix, couldn’t slow, couldn’t hide. Just stable enough to know he needed to go in. Just stable enough to ask Amanda for help. Just stable enough to feel guilty that she was driving him to the doctor when she was two months pregnant and barfing all day long. Just stable enough to hold a small trash can on his lap for her, just in case. Just stable enough that he couldn’t drive a car. Just stable enough to feel guilty for that. 

They showed up, and Amanda told Ian to sit down. He did as he was told, and felt proud for that. But he jiggled his legs hard, hard enough to hear his keys rattle in his pocket, some faraway sound. He scratched at his arm, then at his neck. He couldn’t handle it anymore, and stood up to meet Amanda at the check-in window. 

“Does he realize that he is manic? Does he have insight?” There’s a nurse there, talking over the head of receptionist. He can see a doctor–not his– behind her. 

“He does,” Amanda said. “He called and asked me to bring him in.” 

“Is he experiencing signs of psychosis? Hallucinations? Delusions?” 

Amanda shook her head. “He hasn’t said anything.” 

Ian stood there, feeling angry and small. He began to pace. The nurse’s voice seemed too loud. Amanda wasn’t afraid. She wasn’t angry. She’s answered questions confidently and quickly. She reached a hand out toward Ian. “Hey Ian,” she said. “You ready?” 

Reception pressed the button to unlock the door, and Ian walked through it. The doctor gestured him over. 

Ian’s confusion broke through his racing mind. He remembers hearing himself say “Where’s Doctor Turi?” 

“She’s on vacation,” this other doctor said. “I’ll be working with you today.” 

Ian stopped short and started backing up. “I don’t know you,” he said. “I’m okay,” he said. “I’ll be okay. I just–” 

“Ian, I can help,” the doctor said. He extended a hand. “I’m Doctor Bennett. Let’s just walk down here where it’s less crowded.” 

When Ian saw his office, the first thought he had was how much cleaner is was in comparison to Doctor Turi’s. He didn’t like it. “Do you want to sit?” 

“No,” Ian said. “No. I’m gonna stand. Look, I think I’ll be okay, really. I don’t need to talk. I just need something to knock me back. Look, I’m not that manic. It’s not that bad.” 

Doctor Bennett looked over at Amanda. “Has he been sleeping?” 

Amanda paused. “Oh,” she said. “He’s not my boyfriend or anything. He’s my brother in law. I don’t know about sleeping.” She tugged on Ian’s sleeve. “Have you been sleeping?” 

Ian felt his wide eyes. He wanted to walk around, but knew he shouldn’t. He knew it would make it show. “Yeah,” he said quickly. “Yes,” he said again, more confidently. 

“How many hours?” 

He hated when they asked questions like that. “I don’t know,” he said. “Enough.” 

“Ian, have you been having any hallucinations? Intrusive thoughts?”

He was trapped. It was so small in here. It was too clean. There was a nurse in the hall and she’s just stood there, like she was waiting for a signal. Is there a signal? Is she holding a telephone? 

“I don’t want to go to the hospital again,” he said quickly. “It’s not that bad.” 

Amanda reached for his hand. “Ian, it’s okay.” Suddenly she swallowed and took a step back. She backed out of the room. Ian heard her ask the nurse for the bathroom, heard her fast footsteps.

“Ian? How many hours are–” 

“She’s pregnant,” Ian said. “Morning sickness. Says it’s all day sickness.” 

The doctor chuckled. “My wife would agree.” 

Ian shuffled his feet. He slowly sat down in a chair. “I keep seeing myself being stabbed.” 

The doctor nodded. “Someone in particular?” 

Ian shook his head. He felt sweaty. “Just feel like I can hear someone, sometimes. But mostly I ust keep picturing all these marks all over my body.” 

“Have you injured yourself recently?” 

Ian hesitated. He could still feel the stinging on his bicep. “No.” 

“No?”

“I don’t want to go to the hospital,” Ian said again. 

“Ian, it’s okay. You’re safe here. You can be honest,” the doctor said, sitting on his desk.

“Fine,” Ian said. “Just a little bit.” 

“May I see?” 

Ian shook his head. He met the doctor’s eyes. “I don’t want to go–”

“Yes, I heard, Ian. So far you’re being very compliant. You can let that worry go for now.”

Ian brought his hand up. He was wearing a long sleeve shirt and had to slide his arm out and under. For some reason, that made it worse, exposing himself so much. He pulled the fabric up and saw the doctor’s eyes find his marks. 

“You’ve been caring for them, I see.” 

Ian nodded “It’s not–” he began. He felt his breath slow. “I didn’t really plan it to happen. It just made me stop picturing that. Being stabbed. Helped slow down. So I did it a couple more times. Then I stopped.” 

“Because the visual hallucinations stopped.” 

“Yeah.” Ian put his arm through the sleeve again. “Kind of.” 

“Well,” the doctor said, easing off the desk. “I’m glad you are caring for your injuries. That shows me you have insight. Do you feel you have insight?” 

Ian’s brain buzzed. “Yeah,” he said. “I know I need,” he swallowed. “Help.” 

Doctor Bennett nodded, gave him a smile. “Okay,” he said confidently. “Okay, here’s what we’ll do.” He walked around and sat in his desk chair again. “You’re on seroquel twice daily? We’ll up that at night 100mg and see if that does it.” He glanced up quickly as Amanda walked back into the room. “Sorry to hear you’re not feeling well,” he said “My wife could swap some stories. Hang in there.” 

Amanda nodded. She still looked queasy, but she was there. 

“Is that it?” Ian felt like there had to be more. He felt like there should be more. “What about now? How can I–” He bounced his legs again, fought the urge to stand up. “What if it doesn’t get me down?” 

The doctor nodded. “Well,” he said. “I can get you a sample of diazepam, if you like. A low dose, just a couple of days. Not for long term, but for today and possibly tomorrow–” 

“That doesn’t work,” Ian said quickly. “It didn’t work before. There’s gotta be something else. I don’t want to go to the hospital.” 

“Ian.” Amanda’s hand felt warm on his shoulder. Her fingers were close to the sore places, the places that told the truth. “That was before, remember? Before you started all the seroquel. It might work better this time.” 

Ian began to fidget. “That’s true,” said Doctor Bennett. “Let’s give it a try.” He glanced over at Amanda. “Is there someone who can stay with him tonight?” 

She nodded. “My husband,” she said. “His brother.” 

Ian grit his teeth. “I don’t need anyone to stay over. Especially not him.” 

“It’s in your best interest,” Doctor Bennett said. “Someone to watch for side effects, make sure you’re safe.” 

Ian shook his head. “I don’t need that. I’ll just go to sleep. I don’t need someone to watch me sleep.” 

“Ian, come on,” Amanda said. “There are worse things.” 

Ian clenched his teeth again. In his mind, he stood up, knocked over the chair, the table, screaming, breaking windows, energy crackling from his fingertips like some sort of insane superhero. 

“Ian,” Doctor Bennett said. “If you want to stay out of the hospital, this will help you.” 

He shot a him a look. “Oh, it’s a threat, now?” 

“No, it’s not a threat,” Doctor Bennett said. “It’s a matter of supporting you so you have a decreased chance of escalating.” 

Amanda pulled at his shoulder again. “If you want me to stay instead, I can.” 

Ian breathed deeply, dragging his long fingers over his face, feeling the tightened muscles. “Fine,” he said. “Lip can come. You should stay home. Rest.” 

“Good,” Doctor Bennett said. He turned his attention to Amanda and shook the sample. “Have him take take just one of these once he’s settled. I sent the updated dose to the pharmacy. Have him take it tonight, but if he’s sleeping, don’t wake him.” 

Amanda nodded. “What should we look for? Just the standard?” 

“If he doesn’t sleep after this,” he shook the sample again, “watch to make sure he’s comfortable before he takes the updated dose. Any agitation, try to keep him calm. If he gets worse–” 

“I’m sitting right here!” Ian smacked the armrest of the chair. “Stop talking about me like I’m not fucking here!” 

“Woah woah,” Amanda said. “We’re just doing worst case scenarios here, buddy. You’re gonna be okay.” 

Ian ran his hand through his hair. “Okay,” he said, breathing hard. “Yeah, okay.” The walls were so close. He wanted to get out of there. He sunk somewhere into his head as Amanda thanked the doctor. Ian shook his hand, maybe a little vigorously, but he didn’t know or care. When they hit the parking lot, Ian took in the cool air in large gulps. 

Amanda bent over her phone, typing. She stuck the phone back in her pocket. “Fuck,” she said, and threw up into the bushes lining the parking lot. Ian listened to her heave. His brain started to race, thinking of every single time he’s thrown up in his life, every age, every time he had a fever, every time he had a cough. The images raced behind his eyes as she straightened up. 

“This better be one cute fucking baby,” she said, voice scratchy. She spit one more time into the bushes. “Come on. Lip’s gonna meet us at your place.” 

*

That was a year ago. It was the last time he’s had to do anything that big. It worked, he was knocked down, and when Doctor Turi came back they did another check in. He doesn’t want to go back like that again. He hasn’t hurt himself, he hasn’t spun out fast like that. It’s why he’s been more careful, and why he writes in his notebook. It’s why he made a doctor’s appointment for later in the week.

He lays back in his bed. He can see his notebook on the kitchen counter. He thinks about getting up to write in it, but it feels redundant, and he worries he’ll cry again. 

He wishes he had some pot. It’s been awhile since he really considered getting high. It had been hard to give it up. _Self-medicating,_ the doctor said. He understood that. He really did. But he also understood the gentle way it swept into his limbs, calming him. When he was a kid, he liked it more than drinking. He smoked weed like Lip smoked cigarettes, sometimes nightly, by the open window. He knew what it was supposed to do to him. Make things funny. The munchies. But he felt clearer, less anxious. 

As he got older, it wasn’t as often, but when he needed it, he needed it. He needed that calm. It let him sleep when his mind raced, worries about school, about ROTC, about West Point, about that guy whose name he never wants to say. It smoothed the worries out of him like a soft paintbrush. 

When he began treatment, he began to lie. _Any drug use?_ He told himself it didn’t matter. It was just pot. _No._

As his meds changed, he realized it didn’t work the same way. He’d be too tired to smoke, or if he did, he felt queasy. He’d take his night meds and his coordination would slip. He’d wake up bleary-eyed and foggy. Slowly the routine of everything changed him, bit by bit, and the habitual part of it faded. He missed it, sometimes, but he missed the promise of what it could do more than the sluggish reality. 

He rolls over in bed and reaches for his phone. He wonders who would have some. He can’t ask Sully. He knows Sully has some, but he’d never give him any. Ian hates that he made so many declarations to Sully and Amanda. _Don’t let me go to a club! Don’t give me any weed!_ He finds Ben’s phone number. He’d understand. 

_Hey. This is Ian. Friend of Tom’s?_ He hesitates, then presses send. 

He looks up at the ceiling. His eyes find that spot on the ceiling where the paint isn’t right. He brushes over it again in his mind. His phone vibrates. 

_Hey Ian! I was thinking about you the other day. What’s up?_

_Nothing new. You?_

_I’m fine. Tom and I broke up. It’s better this way_

_What happened?_

There’s a pause. _I don’t want to be some boring queen who’d rather watch Downton Abbey than go to the club._

Ian chuckles, just a little. He hesitates again. _It’s hard when you work at a club to stick around sometimes._ It’s true. It’s mostly true, even though tt wasn’t very true for him. He’d just switch clubs. 

_I guess. He just wanted to talk about bipolar. Wanted to go to the doctor with me. It’s my business, not his._

Ian hums in understanding, just a little. It all connects. Ian knew, just from talking with him that night, that things were going to take time. Ben wasn’t ready, yet. He knows why, he understands why. He also knows that you can’t force that on anyone. Tom’s a nice guy, A great guy, even. Shyer than he is at work. Of course he’d want to stay in at night. The only reason he still works at the club is he knows how to play that role, and makes a shitload of money. Ian remembers seeing guy after guy burn out fast and leave. The ones who stuck it out were the ones who were able to see it as a persona they could unzip as they left the door at night. He remembers Tom being quiet on the way home, resting his head on Ian’s shoulder. He lets his mind rest on the image a minute. 

Ian stares at the screen. _Do you feel like you’re…”_ he pauses, goes back, deletes. He tries again _You feeling ok?_

_I’m fine._

This isn’t worth it. Ian might be wrong, or he might be right. He imagines himself, at the beginning, stopping and starting meds, erratically taking them, then not at all. He flexes his sore hand and types out _That’s good._ What is he doing? Oh, pot. Suddenly it seems like such a bad idea. It is a bad idea. He’s about to sign off when another text comes through. 

_You wanna come out? I’m at The White Swallow. 2 for 1s._

_No thanks_ Ian types quickly. He sends it off before typing again. _Just checking in._

There’s a long break before another text comes through. _I’m versatile, if it helps. I’m up for whatever you’re up for._ There’s a wink emoticon. 

Shit. Shit shit shit. Ian groans. He should have known what this sounded like. Aimlessly texting for pot, then not even saying anything about it. _Oh no, I’m sorry_ Ian types. _I was just gonna ask if you had any weed. I shouldn’t smoke it anyway though, so forget it. Thanks for inviting me out though._

There’s another long pause. _I’m here anytime. I can bring you weed whenever you want._ Another wink. 

Ian’s hands shake. No. No no no. He feels oily, almost. His eyes burn a little. His back aches. He shuts his phone off, all the way off. He slowly gets out of bed, wincing, and takes his night meds, more Advil. He peels off his clothes and slides under the covers. He puts the TV on and shuffles through the channels. He’s about to shut it off when he hears a knock at the door. He freezes. Wait. No, no, there’s no way Ben would be here. It makes no sense, time wise. Shit. Shit. But what if he just started walking? No. He lives too far away. What if–

“Gallagher!” 

It’s a loud slur. Louder than he should be at this time. Ian mutters under his breath and reaches for his boxers, slips them on. The knock is louder, a thunk from the side of a fist. 

Mickey leans against the doorframe when Ian opens the door. His breath is heavy with whiskey, a little beer mixed in. “Wanna talk to you.” Mickey’s hand rises and meets Ian’s bare chest. He pushes him backward into his apartment. 

Ian wants to say so many things. Say no. Say no fucking way. He wants to push him out into the hall. Cause a scene. Call the cops. He wants to scream at him. He wants to start crying. He wants to tell him everything, tell him why this hurts. Tell him what he thought would happen. Tell him that he wants to try, again, just the same. Tell him to get the fuck out and never come back.

But as Mickey’s hand slides down his body, as Mickey’s eyes droop and he sways a little, Ian also wants to hold him, even like this, drunk. He wants to forgive and be forgiven. He doesn’t know why he wants it all to fall away, but he does. He wants to fall back into Mickey, taking him in like medicine, like breath. 

“You’re drunk,” Ian says. He means to say it dismissively, like it is enough to make him leave. Instead, he hears him say it like it’s some surprise, a strange discovery. “You should go home.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Can’t go home,” he says. “Too far. I need to talk to you.” 

Ian watches himself reach out, reach for Mickey. Mickey’s hands are sweaty, but they slide right into Ian’s. Mickey breathes harder as Ian pulls him closer, breathes harder as Ian pulls him closer still. Ian’s arms slide around him, and Mickey’s head falls to Ian’s shoulder.

“Why did you do this?” Ian whispers, holding him tighter.

“Because you don’t want me,” MIckey slurs. “Not gonna love me.” Ian freezes. What? What the fuck? His stomach flips and settles. He can feel his wet breath against Mickey’s forehead. He feels all his nerves firing, feeling every single inch of Mickey, air and fabric, himself. 

“Hey,” Ian says. He doesn’t know what he’s going to say. “Hey, you’re just tired, Mick. Let’s get you cleaned up. You can stay here tonight.” He feels his hand sliding up Mickey’s back, meeting the back of his head, the back of his neck, still pressed against Ian’s shoulder. 

“So fucking sorry,” Mickey says into his neck. “Such a fuckin’ dick. Shouldn’ta done that. Deserve better than that. Now you don’t want.” He stops there, that heavy word. Want. Ian can feel Mickey's lips on his neck, pressing in, just a little. Then pressing a little harder. 

Ian gently pulls him away. “We both–" he begins. "Look, we both did stupid shit. We don’t need to talk about it tonight. My meds are gonna get me tired anyway. Let’s just wait til tomorrow.” 

Mickey shakes his head. He sways a little. “I’m not gonna be like that anymore. Not any of it. I'm not gonna be like my fuckin dad. Not gonna be some fuckin prick.” His voice is getting louder, less even. “Not gonna do that again, I promise. Not my fuckin dad. ‘S fuckin dead. He can’t try ta kill us again.” 

_Kill us again?_ Ian’s breathing stutters.“I’m gonna get you some water. Sit down.” He guides Mickey to sit on the bed. “Take your shoes off,” he says. 

Ian sighs as he gets a glass out of the cupboard. He drinks from the glass first, then fills it again. He sets it down. He splashes water on his face. He winces. He refills the glass for Mickey. _He can’t try ta kill us again._

“Mickey,” he says, “Mickey what do you mean?” He walks back to bed. “What do you mean kill us again?” 

Mickey is curled up on top of the sheet, holding the pillow close. He rouses at the sound of Ian’s voice, but doesn’t answer. “Whadd ya say?” 

Ian smoothes a hand over his hair. “Nothing,” he says. “Forget it.” 

He lies down and shuts the light off. He can hear someone yelling down the street. He can’t make out the words, just the angry desperation that bounces off the buildings and streetlights. Mickey begins to snore next to him. Ian can feel that burn in his eyes again. All of his limbs ache. He’ll feel worse, again, tomorrow. He wonders what happened to Mickey, what happened between the site and knocking on his door. He reaches over and slides a hand down Mickey’s back, and Mickey stirs just a little. Ian nudges his body closer He finds Mickey’s leg with one hand and buries his face in Mickey’s shoulder blades. That person is yelling louder, and someone starts yelling back. Mickey makes a little sound and stops snoring. Ian’s medicine starts loosening his limbs, and when someone yells again, it’s the last thing he hears.


	8. Walls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Actions have consequences.

The crack of thunder jolts Ian awake. His body jerks instinctively, and he realizes his arm is around Mickey. Mickey’s fingers twitch under Ian’s hand. Their hands are sweaty, and Ian’s nose is against Mickey’s neck. He wonders if he moved at all. 

When he pulls his head back, he can see that hickey. The hickey that got them into this whole new mess. He sighs. His bladder calls. He starts to slowly back away, but Mickey’s hand grabs his tighter. 

“Stay,” Mickey says quietly. His voice is soft and clear, sleep removed. Ian realizes he’s been awake. 

Ian pulls his hand away slowly. “I’ll–I just have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be back.” He slowly rolls over and pulls himself to his feet. Mickey hasn’t moved, still curled up on the pillow, facing the window. “Are you okay?” Ian says. “Feel sick?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Not too bad.” 

Ian steps closer to the kitchen to squint at the time. It’s almost time to be on site. He looks out the window. It’s absolutely pouring. He feels immense relief. 

In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth and washes the sleep from his face. He opens the cabinet and grabs some advil. He gets a glass of water from the kitchen. He walks around to Mickey’s side, and Mickey backs up to make room for him. “Here,” Ian says quietly, passing him the orange pills. Mickey sits up a little, takes them, reaches for the offered water. He doesn’t meet Ian’s eyes. 

“So I guess we aren’t working today, huh? Or did you want to go?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “We’d run into too many problems.” He wipes at his face. He still doesn't look up. “You think you have to go to Bowman?” 

“I don’t know,” Ian says. “Maybe.” 

Mickey looks up, then. He searches Ian’s eyes. “Can you just–can we just stay here a little bit?” 

Ian nods. Mickey begins to sit up, stand, make his way to the bathroom. “Can I put some of your toothpaste on my finger or what,” he says. 

Ian fights a smile, then remembers something. “Hey, I might even have another one. There might be one in the cupboard if you wanna look.” 

“Thanks,” Mickey says quietly. 

"You know," Ian says carefully. "You can take a shower too, if you want."

Mickey huffs a little "Why, I smell bad?"

Ian shakes his head. "Didn't say that."

Mickey smiles, just a little, and heads for the bathroom. Ian takes his meds. He writes them in his notebook, along with the note _still sore._ He pauses. _Mickey slept over._

Ian lays back down and reaches for his phone. He starts it up again when he hears the shower turn on. There’s a text from Sully, checking in. He shoots out a quick response and looks for Bowman’s number. It rings twice before Hayley picks up. 

“Ian?” It’s nice to hear her voice. It feels like it’s been a long time. “Howdy, stranger!” 

“Hey,” Ian laughs. “Listen, I’m just calling because I won’t be at Emerald today. Does Don want me to come in?” 

“He’s not here yet,” Hayley said. “He said he had to do some stuff this morning. I can text him if you want.” 

“Sure,” Ian says. He pauses, listens to his shower run. “I’m kind of hoping I can play hooky. I bashed up my face pretty good the other day. I don’t know if he wants me doing house calls.” 

Hayley whistles. “What did you do, get in a fight?” 

Ian thinks of lying, but can’t really think of an excuse he’d want to use. “Well, kinda.” 

Hayley clucks her tongue. “Nice one. I thought you were supposed to all evened out?” 

Ian feels a little smolder inside him. She doesn’t get it, she never has. It’s fine. It’s okay. “I am,” he says. “Shit still happens. There are still assholes.” 

“Damn southside,” she says. “We can never clean that off, can we?” 

He chuckles. He hears the shower shut off. “Oh,” he says. “Hey, I gotta go. Can you text me after you hear from Don? I don’t have a van either, so I need some time to get over.” 

“At this point,” Hayley says, and there’s a shuffling noise. “At this point I’m guessing you’ll have a nice rainy day at home. I’ll be like ‘Yo Ian has his face bashed in and has to take the el here. Whaddya think, boss?’”  
Ian chuckles. “Works for me.” Mickey reappears, his hair disheveled and wet. His clothes are gone, and he’s in his boxers, nothing else. Ian lets his eyes hold the sight. He’s still lying down, and he wants Mickey to come over and lay on top of him. He wants it so bad. “Just let me know,” he says into the phone, fast. “I’ll be here. I’m not going anywhere.” 

They hang up. Ian can’t take his eyes off Mickey. There’s a silence when Mickey looks down at Ian spread out on the bed. 

Ian slowly sits up. “Feel better?” 

Mickey nods. “My clothes smell like shit. Can I get a shirt?” 

Ian gestures to the dresser, and when Mickey turns his back, Ian’s eyes sweep all over him. The wide, lightly freckled shoulders, the curve of his back, his thick hips, the soft power of his thighs. He licks his lips. “If you want boxers, or pants or whatever…” He lets the words hang there as Mickey pulls the tank top on. Mickey’s hand pauses on the little knob. His hand drops back to his waist and he eases the elastic down, stepping out of his boxers, bending just slightly, like he’s trying not to bed down very far. Ian holds his breath as his eyes take in the perfect swell of his ass. His breath leaves him, a tiny _fuck_ leaving his lips. 

When Mickey turns back, Ian can see he’s a little hard. He tries not to look, tries to pull his eyes away, meet Mickey’s face, be as serious as they should be right now. There’s so much to talk about. 

MIckey shifts under his gaze as Ian’s eyes find his. He chews his lip.

“Mick, are we gonna talk about this?”

Mickey nods. His eyes begin to race around the room. “I’m sorry I came by,” he begins. “You know, just being drunk and stupid.” He clears his throat. “Not how I wanted to start all this.” 

Ian swallows. “Start all what?” 

Mickey hesitates. “Making it up to you.” 

It starts raining harder. There’s a clap of thunder again. 

He stands a few feet away, just beyond the foot of Ian’s bed. Ian watches his hand raise up, his arm extend. “Come here,” he says softly. “We can lay down and talk.” 

Mickey doesn’t take it yet. He bites his lip a little harder. He takes a step closer. “I’ll understand if you don’t want me here,” he says. “Not after the shit I pulled.” He doesn’t sit. He stays out of reach. 

“Come here,” Ian says again, his voice just a little louder. “Please.” 

Mickey sighs loudly. He tentatively raises his hand to grasp Ian’s. “Fine,” he says briskly, swallowing fast, clenching his teeth. “Okay,” he says, voice tight. “Okay, I will.” 

He lowers himself slowly, and Ian scoots over to give him room. Mickey crosses his hands over his stomach. 

There is a little space between them. Ian’s tongue slips from his lips, crossing over the cut on his lip. He tastes toothpaste. “Do you remember saying something about your dad killing us?” 

Mickey blinks his eyes fast. He closes them tight, then opens. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I do.” 

Ian doesn’t say anything. He turns on his side, and his hand raises up to Mickey’s forehead. He drags his hand against the lines there, softly brushing some of his hair back. There’s a scar there, on the side of his forehead, a slight disruption of his hairline. It’s thick and uneven, the kind of cut that should have had actual stitches, but was shoved shut with tape and glue. Mickey closes his eyes and opens them again. 

“You can trust me,” Ian hears himself whisper. 

Mickey nods. There’s a little bit of something in his eyes. He shuts them and sniffs hard. There’s a long silence. Ian can hear car wheels splashing through large puddles. Mickey stays completely still. Ian feels himself inch a little closer. 

“You know how,” Mickey begins, eyes closed. “You know how I didn’t ever do sex stuff besides the alley guys?” 

Ian gives a little affirmative sound, tries to keep himself steady. “Yeah?” 

“Well,” Mickey begins. “Well there was this...this guy before that. Guy from the neighborhood.” He slowly opens his eyes and looks at Ian. He nods. “And this guy and I, we–we messed around. Just a little bit. That was the first time I did.” 

The weight of this information slides against Ian’s body, the side of his body pressed into the mattress, looking at Mickey. He nods.

“And this guy,” Mickey says, closing his eyes again. “First time anything happened we was shooting guns up on the busted up warehouse on South Justine. You know that place?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah, I know that place.” 

Mickey opens his eyes and finds Ian’s face, eyes straight on him. “So we’re drunk as hell one day. We’re just shootin’ at shit. Surprised we didn’t fuckin shoot each other, fucked up like we were. But we run outta slugs and we’re laughing our heads off. He keeps talkin’ about fucking Angie Zago. You know Angie Zago?” 

“No,” Ian says. “I mean, I know who she is, but I didn’t like,” he chooses his words carefully. “Know-her know her.” 

Mickey chuckles. “You wouldn’t, I guess.” He smiles, and part of Ian wants to make some smartass comment, maybe even a mean one, and he doesn’t understand why. Not really. It’s jealousy, maybe, but not quite.

“Anyway,” Mickey says, smile fading. “We start talkin’ about fucking Angie Zago. This guy’s talking is about how bad she is at giving head. Like, and you know I said I didn’t like that bein’ done to me, so I don’t know what he’s talkin’ about. But I go, ‘Yeah, I know.’ And we keep passing this bottle of Jack back and forth and kind of get closer. This guy goes ‘She can really kiss though.’ And I’m tellin’ him how I don’t kiss. He says that he usually doesn’t, either. But that he kisses her ‘cause she’s good at it, and it feels like they’re fucking when they’re just kissing.” 

Ian makes a small sound. A short little hum. He knows. He knows that feeling. He knows it, feels it, with Mickey.

“So I start laughing at him. I call him a girl, and he starts losing his shit laughing. We’re just standing there laughing with this stupid bottle. I feel like I can hardly see, and he’s just really close. Then I feel his arm kind of brush me. So I kind of brush him back, and then we are shoving each other, laughing. All of a sudden the bottle drops, and I kinda hear it smash, but then all of a sudden he’s grabbing me and we’re kissing like we’re gonna fuckin’ die.” 

“Holy shit,” Ian breathes. It sounds raw, romantic, scary. He raises himself up on one elbow, props his body up, looking down at Mickey. “What happened?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says. “It just–it was just happening. It was so...I mean, it was almost like I wasn’t even in my fuckin’ body. I don’t know if it was being drunk or what, but…” 

“Wasn’t being drunk,” Ian says. “Sometimes that just happens. Especially at first.” 

There’s a relief that Ian can see in Mickey, then. A relief to have it validated, to be what it was, at the start. Feeling good, feeling right. Ian knows it’s hard to make sense of these memories, sometimes. More complicated, especially how they grew up. 

Mickey nods. “Okay,” he says quietly. “Yeah, okay.” 

“Then what?” 

Mickey rubs at his face. “Then I remember things got a little wobbly. Like, we were too drunk to stay still. But he’d pull away and I’d keep pulling him back.” There’s a little tremble in his eyes, just a little. “And I keep pulling him back and I start sayin’ all this shit. Like fag shit.” 

Ian raises his eyebrows at the phrase, and Mickey goes “Come on, you know what I mean.” Ian wants to say _No. No, I don’t know what you mean. No, you need to tell me._ And part of him doesn’t want to know, and part of him really, really does. 

Mickey sighs. “And he starts fucking around with my pants, like trying to pull ‘em open, but he can’t work the button right, and the more he fumbles around the more sober I start feeling. And it hits me what’s happenin’ and I push him off me really hard. He falls back on the ground, like he fell back really hard. Wind knocked out of him. And all of a sudden I wanna fuckin’ punch him. I realize I’m gonna fuckin’ punch him.” 

“Mickey,” Ian says softly. “Please tell me you didn’t.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “He got up,” he says. “He got up and punched me in the stomach.” 

“Fuck.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Then what?” 

Mickey groans. “Then I fuckin’ puke and he leaves, and we don’t see each other for a couple weeks. Just keep crossin’ paths and lookin’ the other way. Meantime I fuck Angie Zago, and I let her kiss me a few times. Try an’ pretend it’s, you know. But it ain’t the same. Not at all.”

Ian doesn’t know anything about fucking Angie Zago, or any other girl, but he knows that feeling. The feeling of knowing, suddenly, what people are talking about, what it all means. He also knows the feeling of pretending nothing happened while wanting it to happen again. “Was that it?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “Nah, one day someone’s poundin’ on the door. Woke me up. I keep yelling for Mandy to get it, but I don’t hear anything other than the fuckin’ banging. So I finally get up, light a smoke, and go to the door. I open it and it’s this fuckin’ guy. And he’s like ‘I need to see you.’”

“Is he drunk?” 

Mickey shakes his head. No. “No, we weren’t. But I don’t want anyone to see him at the front door.” 

“Why?” 

Mickey shrugs. “I don’t know. I just don’t. So I tell him to get in. We don’t say nothin. I just start walking to my room, and he just kind of follows me in there. I put my smoke out and turn around, and we get back to it, just like that.” 

“Woah.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “And it’s…” Ian sees him swallow hard. “It’s…” 

“I know,” Ian says, quietly, and slides his fingers over that scar again. 

Mickey clears his throat and swipes his fingers against his nose. He looks up at Ian. “And I didn’t have my shirt on because it’s summer and I was sleepin. But he pulls his shirt off, too, and I feel like I should tell him not to, but I don’t. I don’t cause I want him to, and I don’t even know why, but it feels good when he takes it off. He kind of pushes me back onto my bed, gets on top of me, keeps kissing me, and it’s better than it was before, for sure. He starts takin’ my pants off and I never been that hard in my life. He just pushes them down, but I shove them all the way off, just wanna. He yanks his pants down, and he’s still kissin’ me and I start sayin’ all this shit again, and he–” Mickey stops and stares at his hand. It’s like there’s an answer written there. “He takes his hand–” and Mickey stops again. There’s a little tremble in his voice. “He takes his hand and we spit in it. We both just spit in it because we all of a sudden realize what’s gonna happen. And he takes his hand and wraps it around both of us, and just starts pulling. We’re moaning and doing all that shit, and he keeps kissing me and I feel like I’m gonna come just from that. It feels...it’s just…” 

There’s no real use holding it back, and Ian watches as it happens slowly. Happens slowly, starting with the corners of his eyes, then along the bottom, then it drops in a slow wave down his face, his breath that shakes out when he opens his mouth. He blinks hard, but Ian sees one, and then another one. “It feels…” Mickey begins again. But then he clears his throat, hard. “But then,” he says. “Then I don’t hear the door, and then all of a sudden my dad’s comin’ through my bedroom door, and then it’s like I can’t see anything. I just see this guy being pulled off me, and I can’t see because my dad starts–” Ian sees another tear drop, another. “My dad starts beating the shit out of me. Just over and over in the face. And he gets his gun out and fuckin’ pistolwhips this guy, and it knocks him out. And when he’s knocked out my dad keeps punching him in the face. His face was so bloody,” Mickey stops. There’s no hiding it, now. Just tears. Just Mickey. 

“Mick-” 

“He was so bloody,” Mickey chokes. “My dad kept fucking punching him. And my eye is all fucked up, but I can see he’s gonna...I mean, he wasn’t gonna stop. So I get up and I jump on my dad’s back, and he smashes me back and then turns on me, and he pistolwhips me, too. I wake up and the guy is gone. I can’t talk, my mouth is all messed up. I can only see outta one of my eyes. But my dad knows I’m asking what happened to him, and he goes ‘You see that faggot again and you’re dead. You’re both dead.’” 

“Holy shit,” Ian says. He lies back down again. He wants to hold Mickey, if he wants to be held. He doesn’t want to push. Not at all. When he’s trying to figure out how to ask, Mickey turns on his side and wraps an arm around his waist, face searching for Ian’s chest. 

“An’ I didn’t,” Mickey says. “I saw him, you know, a couple times in the neighborhood, and we acted like we didn’t see each other.” Ian can feel wetness on his chest. He slides his hand down Mickey’s back. “And then one day he’s just gone. Skipped town.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Ian says into his hair. He kisses there, quick and soft. “That’s awful.” 

Mickey nods against his him. “So that’s why I said I don’t kiss,” he says. “And that’s, I guess, why I kissed you in that bathroom. Because I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about you like that. And it scared the shit out of me.” He huffs a little laugh. “Still scares the shit out of me.” 

Ian hums. He slides an arm under Mickey and takes him completely into his arms. “You were right,” he says quietly. “Last night.” 

“With what?” 

“He can’t kill us.” 

Ian looks down at Mickey. Mickey looks up. There’s suddenly no reason for this. No reason for fighting or demanding or finger-pointing or pain. There’s no reason, no room. There is Mickey in his arms, and Mickey’s face on his chest. Their eyes. Mickey’s eyes on his mouth. There is Ian’s hand rising to Mickey’s face, tipping his chin back just a little bit more. The shake of Mickey’s breath. 

Ian licks his lips. He tries to steady his breathing. “Mick,” he says softly. “Mick, can I?”

Mickey nods, hand rising up to Ian’s face, sliding against his neck, the back of his head. He pulls his head closer. “Yeah,” Mickey says softly. “Yeah.” 

Ian is careful when their lips meet. Soft. Slow. He thinks about his lip, still sore, and doesn’t want the cut to open up. He thinks about Mickey, his story, his history, and doesn’t want to push. He thinks of these things, but then Mickey pulls him in closer, pulls him against him, on top of him, and then Ian doesn’t think at all. 

Mickey’s breath is hot in his mouth, his tongue slow and soft. He murmurs soft words, legs opening so Ian can slip between them. Ian feels him, feels Mickey is getting hard, can feel himself getting hard, too. One of Ian’s hands travels down Mickey’s leg, pulling it higher as it rises and hooks around his body. His fingers press in, sliding down more firmly. His other arm still holds him up above him, carding into his hair as they kiss. There’s a sting in his lip, but it doesn’t bleed. He kisses Mickey harder. 

Mickey’s leg presses harder into Ian’s lower back. He tilts his head back on the pillow and Ian licks a line up his neck. Mickey gasps and bucks up just slightly. 

Ian finds his ear. “This okay?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says. He pulls at Ian’s back, his t-shirt. “Here, take your fucking shirt off.” 

Ian backs up and yanks it off. “You too,” he whispers, and pulls it up over Mickey’s head. They reach for each other as soon as the shirts fall, chests sliding against each other. Mickey’s other leg rises against him. They press together tightly. 

“How do you feel?” Ian whispers. “What should I do?” 

“Mouth,” Mickey says. “Feel your mouth.” 

Ian hums and backs up. He slides his long hands around Mickey’s chest and down his arms, squeezing gently. His mouth drops to his chest and he inches down, nearing his stomach, when Mickey stops him. “Wait,” he says. “Wait, not that. Not–not yet. Just...just wanna feel your mouth on me.” 

Ian groans against his skin. His lips fall everywhere, against Mickey’s, against Mickey’s face, hairline, ears, neck. His mouth is strong around Mickey’s nipple, pulling a little, softening the teasing with the soft swipe of his tongue. Mickey pants hard, swearing under his breath. His chest is flushed and warm. 

Ian pulls back again. “Turn over,” he whispers. 

Mickey complies right away. He drops his forehead, and Ian’s mouth falls against that hickey first, and he sucks lightly against it, reclaiming him, just a little. Mickey moans into it, arm sliding back again to bring him closer, just like the first time. Ian pulls back and lets his lips travel along Mickey’s shoulders. He holds himself up on one hand and lets the fingers of his other hand lightly trace down his spine. his lips follow suit, down and down, soft bites here and there. Lips. Tongue. Mickey moans. 

Ian slides down further. He kisses the back of Mickey’s thighs, sliding fingernails up softly. He reaches up and pulls on Mickey’s hips. “Up,” he mumbles into his skin. Mickey moans as he raises his body to all fours, his head bowed deeply. 

Ian pulls back to admire Mickey’s ass. His fingers trace lightly in long lines, circling over each cheek, dragging up and down, a hint of fingernails. Mickey’s breath shakes as he begins to push back slightly. He traces a finger up and down his crack, slow and long, up to Mickey’s lower back, and then reaching down, tracing along his balls, his perineum. “Oh fuck,” Mickey gasps. “Oh fuck.” 

“So sensitive,” Ian whispers.

“Yeah,” Mickey pants. “Yeah, I know.” 

“Feel good?” 

“Oh fuck yeah,” Mickey murmurs. “Feels real good.” 

“Good,” Ian says. He kisses along a cheek and he keeps dragging his finger up and down. He kisses lower, right where Mickey’s ass meets his leg. He bites there, and as Mickey pushes back again, Ian grabs a handful of ass and squeezes hard. Mickey’s groan is louder than the thunder that breaks outside. Ian’s mouth rises and tongue traces up the crease of his ass. He thinks about truly rimming him. Next time. 

Ian gives Mickey’s ass a soft swat, and then a firmer one when Mickey sighs. He can hear a soft laugh. “Turn over,” Ian says. 

Mickey quickly complies. His legs hook around Ian again and they kiss hard. Ian’s lip pulls and hurts a little, but he doesn’t care. Ian pulls away, hungry. “You want me to suck you off?” 

Mickey shakes his head slowly. No. “Want you to fuck me,” he whispers, breath hard and fast. “Fuck me slow.” 

Ian moans into his mouth. “You want me deep?” 

Mickey nods and squeezes his legs together. Ian feels his hips tip a little. He can feel him presenting his ass a little bit more. Ian’s cock presses hard against him, eager. He pulls away enough to grab the lube and condom from the nightstand. “Yeah,” Mickey whispers, breathless. “Want you real deep.” 

“You like when I fuck you slow, don’t you.” Ian holds his voice even, just barely. 

“Yeah,” he moans. “Love when you fuck me slow. Know I do.”

Ian squeezes lube on his fingers, and doesn’t waste any more time. Mickey breathes fast, then slow, relaxing under Ian’s hand. “You want it this slow?” he whispers, fingers turning in a circle. 

MIckey shakes his head. No. “No, want it slow like how you do.” 

“Want me to fuck you slow and hard?” Ian says, kissing Mickey’s cheek between whispers. “Nice and deep?” 

Mickey nods fast. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, like that. Like it like that.” 

Ian pulls his hand away, and Mickey holds on tighter. Ian eases in, bottoming out with an almost silent sound. “Oh, fuck, Mick. Tight.” 

“You wanna open me up more?” His voice is shaky. 

Ian bends to kiss him. “I gotcha,” he says, slowly circling his hips. “Fuck, you’re so perfect.” He looks at Mickey, then. Flushed. Beautiful. “You feel okay?” 

Mickey nods and nods, breathing deeply, slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, really okay.” 

Ian circles his hips again. “You need more?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “No,” he says, breath slow. “I’m good.” 

Ian nods, sliding back a little, looking down where they are connected, little groan. “Wait,” he says quietly. He slips back and reaches for the lube again, adding more, breathing deeply. 

“Ian,” Mickey groans. “C’mon, please.” 

Ian pushes back into him, all the way in, and Mickey’s breath catches as Ian waits there, waits for Mickey’s nod before pulling back and in again. It’s hard, and deep, and slow, just like Mickey wants it. This is exactly how Mickey likes it, most of the time. The opposite of how he had it, before. This is something he has only had with Ian. Only Ian. The animal part of his brain is overcome with feelings of pride and possession. The part of him that thinks clearly is in awe, every time, of how good this feels, how right it feels, how much it feels like breathing. 

There’s a long and wild groan that races up from Mickey’s throat. This certainly isn’t going to last long. “Harder,” Mickey pants. “Fuck. Harder. More.” 

Ian snaps his hips, and Mickey’s breath catches. Ian pushes against Mickey’s legs, bringing them closer to his chest. Mickey squirms under the change, but they hit some sort of sweet spot where his hitched-up legs are both comfortable and conducive to the way Ian wants to thrust up into his body. 

Mickey’s legs shake, and he keeps mumbling little words as he grunts again and again, pushing back against Ian. He starts pushing back harder, so Ian picks up the pace, thrusting faster and harder, and Mickey moans _there. There._ He hits that place again and again, and when Mickey’s hand drops, Ian whispers _not yet_ and keeps hitting and hitting and hitting that place over and over, and Mickey cries out. Ian shifts one leg up a little more, and Mickey moans, loud and long, and Ian feels him spilling against his skin. Ian thrusts faster and follows him over, breath shaky and quiet. 

They are hardly cleaned up when Ian’s phone begins to buzz. He sits up to grab it from the nightstand. It’s Hayley from Bowman. Two words. Two sweet and welcomed words. _Stay home._

Ian sighs. 

“Who’s that,” Mickey says, panting. “Bowman?” 

Ian nods. 

“Fuck,” Mickey says under his breath. 

“It’s okay,” Ian says, grinning, turning on his side. “I get to stay home,” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I’m all yours.” 

Mickey snorts a laugh. “Better be,” he grunts, and their lips find each other again. 

*  
“Jesus, Gallagher. What happened to you?” 

Ian was hoping it had faded enough that it wasn’t going to be a big deal, but as soon as he’s standing in front of Don, he realizes how much he was wrong. 

“It’s–” Ian begins. “I’m sorry. I know it looks terrible. I should have told you.” 

Don puts his hands on his hips. “Hayley told me,” he says. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” He groans and wipes his hand on his forehead. “Okay,” he says, looking around the office. “Okay, let me see what I can have you do. Maybe we got a hotel or apartment building up north or something. Team up with Randy or one of the guys who can get face time with the customer. Hide you in the air conditioner.” 

Ian nods. “I’m sorry, Don.” 

Don breathes out, shrugs. “Shit happens, I guess. Heat makes us all a little crazy.” He cringes at the last word. “I don’t mean–I wasn’t sayin’ that–”

“It’s fine,” Ian says, waving it off. 

“What’d the foreman at Emerald have to say?” 

Ian hesitates. He hesitates just enough that Don’s eyes fly open wider. “Well–” Ian begins. 

“Office.” Don spits, eyes wild. “Now.” 

Ian follows him, sneaking a glance at a cringing Hayley. Don steps aside to let Ian come in, then claps the door shut behind him. 

“You mean to tell me this happened on site?” Don’s voice is clipped, barely in control. “The site I recommended you for? Trusted you with? What the fuck do think Kowalski’s gonna say? He know about this?”

“I-I don’t know,” Ian stammers. “I don’t think so.”

Don shakes his head. “What happened?” 

“Nothing. It was stupid. It’s not a big deal. We’re all over it.” 

Don takes a step forward. “I need you to tell me what happened. I think I’ll be the judge about how big a deal it is.”

Ian takes a deep breath. He can hear the fluorescent bulb buzzing in the ceiling. “There were these two guys, and they were giving the foreman shit about something, and eventually I got into it. One of the guys called me a faggot and I lost it.” 

Don groans. “Jesus H. Why’d you have to get into things just because of that? That’s the shit you gotta brush off when you’re working with dumb fucks on a job. You know that. What do you care?” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth “I care because I,” he begins. “Because I _am,_ Don.” 

Don doesn’t say anything for a minute, just stares. 

“You know,” Ian says. “Like I’m–”

“I know,” Don says, nodding. “I heard you. So?” 

“So?” 

“Yeah! So why’d you get into it over that? Just some asshole ribbin’ the foreman? You know better! You let the foreman deal with it. Shoulda just let him deal with it instead of getting your punches in.” 

Ian clenches his teeth. “Okay,” he says. “Sure.” 

“Sure? What do you mean _sure_?” 

“He was in on it too,” Ian said. “At first, but it broke up pretty fast. It’s not his fault. He kicked me off site for the day.” 

Don shakes his head. “What the hell ship does that foreman think he’s runnin? Thought you had Milkovich?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah. It’s him.” 

“That doesn’t make sense. Not at all.” 

There’s a pause, a quiet Ian doesn’t quite know how to fill. “I know I fucked up. I’m really sorry. I had to back up and fix some ductwork, but I did the rest of the downstairs yesterday.” He thinks about it, the day after the rain, everything at the site soggy. He thinks about Danny, barely meeting his eyes at first, but then offering a hand out in apology. He worked hard and fast. Mickey was starting to talk drywall. 

“What about wiring?” 

“Kowalski got another guy to help me. He wants the timeline sped up. I went over some of the stuff yesterday with him. I’ll finish getting it worked up tomorrow. Should be pretty quick after that.” 

Don nods. “You want me to let you out of here today?” 

Ian shrugs. “No,” he says. “No, I’m here for you, however you want me.” 

Don leans back on his desk. “I’m serious with this, Ian. You pull one more stunt and you’re fired. I don’t give a shit if you’re gay. I don’t give a shit that you’re bipolar. That’s all fine. There’s nothin’ wrong with that. Has nothing to do with your work.” 

Ian nods. 

“But if _this_ is what I’m going to have to deal with–you bein’ a loose cannon on jobs I recommend you for, I’m not gonna trust you to be the face of this business. _My_ business. Do. You. Understand.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

Don stares at him. “Good.” He pushes himself away from his desk. “Let’s go see where we can hide you.” 

*  
He had swung by the site on the way home. He told himself it was to check with the guy working on the wiring, but he wanted to see Mickey. The energy of the conversation with Don was still rattling around in his body. But when he got to the site, Mickey wasn’t there, and no one seemed to know where he went, just that he had left in a hurry. 

He finds himself in front of Mickey’s house, pausing at the stairs, looking up at the door. The train rattles overhead, and he breathes in and out. He doesn’t know why he’s worried. He’s fine. They’re fine. But he can’t stop thinking about Don’s words. Had he called Kowalski? Did Kowalski get involved? Was Mickey fired? The synapses in his brain fire and crackle. He itches at his skin. 

He knocks on the door twice, waits. There’s a bunch of stuff on the front porch, and a little cat licking it’s paw. He knocks on the door again. There’s a shuffle, and it swings open. 

It’s that girl again, his sister, Mandy. She grins at him, corner of her mouth turning up. “You here to booty call my brother?” 

Ian can’t help it. He laughs low in his throat. “Not exactly.” 

Mandy steps back from the doorway. She waves him in. “He’s not here,” she says. “I’m making spaghetti though. You want some?” 

Ian stays in the entryway. “Sure,” he says. “Um, yeah, that’s great.” 

Mandy’s hair falls around her shoulders. It’s so dark, just like Mickey’s. She’s long and lanky while Mickey is stocky and broad, but anyone on the street would know they were siblings. It’s comforting. “Are you coming in?” 

Ian smiles. “Sorry,” he says. “Yeah.” 

He follows her into the kitchen. It’s cluttered and the floor is dirty, but the dishes are clean. it’s like his house. It’s like every house he’s ever really seen around here. “I don’t have any meat or anything,” she says. “It’s just sauce and stuff.” 

Ian nods. “That sounds great,” he says. 

Mandy drains the noodles and steam hangs around her face. “It’s my brother,” she says. She shakes the strainer a couple times. “Not Mickey, but one of my other brothers. Did he tell you we have three brothers?” 

Ian shakes his head. “No. I only heard about you.” 

“What did he say about me?” 

“Honestly?” Ian gets closer, watches her stir the noodles into the pot with the sauce. “Not very much.” 

Mandy rolls her eyes as she gets two plates down. “Typical.” 

“So what about your brother?” Ian asks. “What were you gonna say?” 

“Oh,” Mandy says, dishing up plates. “Our brother Iggy. Got stranded out on a job, needed to get out of there quick.” 

“What does he do?” 

“Well,” Mandy says, drawing the word out. “It’s not legal, necessarily. He sells...things.” 

Ian nods. He takes the plate Mandy offers and sits down. 

“Shouldn’t be much longer,” Mandy says. 

“Thanks for the spaghetti,” Ian says. “Really. This is really nice of you.” 

“Fucking finally,” Mandy says, complaining. “ _Some_ one appreciates what I do in this house.” 

Ian chuckles. “I know that feeling.” 

Mandy gives him that grin again. They eat quietly. 

“So how’d you meet my brother?” 

There’s part of him that feels almost sad that he hasn’t talked about him. “At the job.” 

“You’re working on that big place with him?” 

Ian nods. 

“You’re too hot to do construction,” Mandy complains. “You should fucking model or something.” 

Ian laughs. “Well, I used to dance on a fucking box in Boystown, so I think I spent more than enough time on display.” 

Mandy’s jaw drops. “You did not! Which one?” 

“Two,” he says, grinning. “The White Swallow and The Fairy Tale.” 

Mandy laughs around the mouthful of spaghetti. “The White Swallow is so fucking disgusting.” 

Ian chuckles. “So you’ve been there.” 

“No,” she says, smiling. “No, I mean the name is disgusting.” 

“Agreed,” he says. He scrapes his fork against his plate and apologizes for the sound it makes. He thinks about Mickey, then, that night at the club. “So I’m gonna go out on a limb and say that you don’t frequent The Fairy Tale either?” 

Mandy shrugs. “I mean, I’ve _been_ there. They make strong fucking drinks and no one bugs me. But I don’t go there, like, often.” 

He twists the last of his noodles on his plate. Mickey was there to hook up, then. It’s not a new thought, it’s not at all surprising, but it makes him jealous, and happy he had busted him. He must have a look on his face, because Mandy catches his eye. 

“But Mick doesn’t go there often either,” she says. “Y’know, like if it makes you feel better. I know he hasn’t gone there since you came around.” 

Ian nods. “Thanks,” he says quietly. He looks at her t-shirt. Big red mouth, the phrase Loose Lips Sink Ships. He gestures with his fork. “I like that shirt.” 

Mandy looks down, startled. “Oh,” she says. “Thanks.” She notices his empty plate. “D’you want some more?” 

Ian shakes his head. “No, I’m good. It was so good. Thanks.” 

Mandy smiles again. “Wanna play Grand Theft Auto?” 

Ian smiles back. “Sure.” 

They sit, knees close, for at least an hour. They tease and shout and laugh. Mandy is about to hit him in the arm when the front door opens. 

Ian cranes his neck to see who it is and Mandy’s fist lands against his shoulder. He laughs, a little, teasing _ow. _A guy with shaggy hair and a vest walks in, dropping a bag by the door. “Sup.”__

__“Hey,” Ian says._ _

__“That’s Iggy,” Mandy volunteers. “Who probably narrowly escaped jail for the 50th time.”_ _

__“Thanks to me,” Mickey grumbles, walking in, closing the door behind him. “Had to drive all the way to fuckin’-” He looks over and sees Ian sitting there, small smile, another breath. “Hey.”_ _

__Ian smiles back. “Hey.”_ _

__“How long you been here?”_ _

__He shrugs. “Couple hours.”_ _

__Mickey’s eyes widen as he looks at Mandy._ _

__“What?” Mandy says. “Are we not allowed to talk?”_ _

__“No,” Mickey says. “Just–”_ _

__Iggy’s voice calls over from the kitchen. “Cool, is this spaghetti?”_ _

__Mandy rolls her eyes. “I don’t know, asswipe, does it _look_ like spaghetti?” _ _

__“Fuck off,” he says. “Mickey you want some?”_ _

__“Nah,” Mickey says. He comes over to the couch and pushes Ian’s shoulder. “Shove over,” he says, smiling. He takes the controller from his hand. “Watch and learn.”_ _

__*_ _

__The house is quiet, mostly. Iggy went out again, and Mandy is in her room with music on. Something quiet with a thick beat, but with the volume down it just feels like the wall has a heartbeat. Ian and Mickey lie in his bed, shirts off, boxers on. No sex, just stillness. Ian looks around the room, eyes finding posters, finding cracks in the plaster, a hole, water damage._ _

__Mickey leans in closer, watches his eyes. “I know,” he says._ _

__Ian turns to face him, confused. “Know what?”_ _

__He gestures around him. “All that mess,” he says. “Probably wonderin’ why I haven’t fixed it.”_ _

__Ian slowly reaches out and slides his hand into Mickey’s. “Nah,” he says. “I got holes in the walls where I grew up, too.”_ _

__Mickey’s fingers slide against his. “How’d you get ‘em over there?”_ _

__“My mom,” he says. “You know how I said my mom’s got bipolar, too? She did a little bit, once when she was home. My dad slammed me against the wall, once. Another time one of my brothers swung a bat too hard.”_ _

__“You didn’t fix ‘em?” Mickey’s voice is quiet._ _

__Ian shakes his head. “It just sort of...blended in. Like the walls did it themselves.”_ _

__Mickey raises his arm up, and Ian feels himself being shuffled over, closer into to Mickey’s chest. Mickey’s arm comes down around his back, holding him. Ian breathes deeply. He rests his head there, feeling Mickey’s chest rise and fall. Somewhere in the room a clock ticks. The music behind the wall stops, then starts again._ _

__Ian can feel Mickey’s lips against his hair. He breathes deeply, breathes in the smell of Mickey, his skin, his sweat. He feels Mickey’s chest expand under his cheek._ _

__“Sometimes I think I’m gonna knock it all down,” Mickey says quietly._ _

__Ian doesn’t say anything. He looks around at the walls again, the broken place that looks just about as tall as Mickey is. He wonders if this is the same bed that Mickey had, back then, that day. The paint is peeling on the ceiling. The windowsill is rotting. He knows the bathroom has loose tiles on the floor, behind the door. There’s the smell of mold in the kitchen, the kind of mold that is deep in the wall, twisted in whatever remains of the tar paper, whatever someone put in there long ago. This isn’t just a house. This is a living and breathing thing, just like all houses are. Houses with energy left behind, dust in the corners, hidden brokenness. Sick. Not everything can be fixed. Sometimes there’s just not enough left to save._ _

__Ian pulls him closer. He feels Mickey’s chest expand again, listens to him breathe out slowly. There’s a little shudder, just a tiny bit. A little whispered _fuck._ Ian doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have to. He knows. _ _

__“I’d help you,” Ian says into his skin. “If you wanted.”_ _

__There’s that shaky breath again. Mickey’s hand comes up to glide in Ian’s hair. Ian feels his lips there, pressing into a kiss that doesn’t lift._ _

__The music behind the wall stops. Ian sees a cobweb in one corner, high up against the ceiling. With this lamp on, the space around the light looks yellow, and somewhere over by the bathroom it’s shadowed, almost blue. His eyes find the broken place again. He closes his eyes, feeling Mickey’s skin underneath his lips. His chest rises and falls, meeting Mickey’s breath. He waits for Mickey to say something else, but there is only a sigh, and then quiet._ _


	9. Windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some things are easily seen. Others stay partially hidden.

He’s glad he remembered the notebook. It’s proof that he’s okay. He pages through it as he approaches the front desk. There’s a cloudy sliding window there, and the window is always closed. There’s a little bell. One of those little bells like a hotel in a movie. It always feels too loud when he presses it. Each visit, he tries to tap it quietly. He tries again, this time, but it still clangs out, a sharp sound in a mostly-quiet room. 

He doesn’t know when he realized why they have that window. When he realized why it’s always closed. It’s kind of like when he realized there is a camera in the corner of the room, pointing toward the front desk. Another camera across the room, up in the corner, pointing the same direction. A front view, a side view, pointing at that cloudy window that sits behind that loud little bell.

Bulletproof glass. The window is bulletproof glass.

It took him a while to notice the little camera feed screen to the left of the receptionist. He saw himself from the front and from the side, turning, squinting. It was one of those times when he realized he is crazy for real. He can say whatever he says to other people, explain his illness however he wants, correct Lip when he tries to shove him in that box. But at the end of the day, he’s a figure on security cameras at the doctor. His doctor. A psychiatrist. A doctor for crazy people. A doctor for people like him. 

The sliding window opens. He gives his name. He pays his $20. He sits down in a chair. His phone buzzes.

_Did you get there ok?_ He’s lucky to have someone like Sully.

_Yeah._ Ian looks around the room. Things might be slow. _It might take a while._

_Should I tell Mickey you’ll be late?_

_I told him last night that I’m picking up another day at Bowman. I’m not sure he remembers._

There’s a pause. _haha i wonder why._ Then there’s that string of emojis again. All exploding party cones. 

Ian laughs under his breath. _Fuck off._ He looks around the room. He sees a man closing his eyes. Occasionally he moves his lips. His knuckles are tight and pale in his lap. Ian knows that feeling. Remembers. _I’ll see you later. The drywall goin’ ok?_

_Yeah. Hauling some serious ass._

_Good._

A door opens. It can’t be for him. He just got here. He watches everyone’s head turn to see the nurse standing there. “Ian Gallagher?” 

Ian squints, brow furrowed. He rises to his feet and follows her into the hallway. His phone buzzes again, but he ignores it. 

“How are you today, Ian?” 

“Um, fine,” Ian says. “Just checking in. You know.” 

“Good.” 

They settle in a room, a room he hasn’t really been in before. The intake rooms are sad and small. Each one has a desk that looks the same–fake wood with a too-big computer on top. There’s usually an overstuffed chair or a loveseat. Some sort of painting on the wall. Nature scenes. Coffee table with a single box of Kleenex sitting on it. 

“I haven’t been in here before,” Ian says. “Thought I’ve been in all of them.” 

“Well, that’s nice,” the nurse says. 

Ian doesn’t know what to say. The nurse starts talking again. Asking him questions. Typing in his answers on the computer. More questions. More typing. The questions are always the same, and by this time they feel tedious and insincere. 

He isn’t finished when his doctor walks into the room, but she isn’t bothered. She gives him a big smile. Whenever she does that, when he’s more or less stable, it makes him feel optimistic. He likes her smile. It’s a little wide, but it’s comfortable. He always sits up a little straighter in his chair so he looks taller and more in control of his life. 

The nurse talks about him like he isn’t there again. Sometimes they do this. “He hasn’t had any delusions or hallucinations, sleep is okay, medication compliant but he thinks he could decrease. Mood swings were present but brought back with self-assistance. He has been mood charting.” She gestures toward him. “Brought it with him today.” 

Ian clenches and unclenches his teeth. He tries to just shuffle past this part, let this kind of talk wash over him like he’s clutching onto a rock and waiting for it to be over. His doctor sometimes waves it off. She listens to the nurse, says thank you, then sits down. She swivels in her chair. 

“So,” she says. “What’s this about decreasing? If you were feeling symptomatic, I’m not sure why you are hoping to decrease.” 

“It’s not like that,” Ian says. “Not exactly. I mean, I had swings. But it was kind of separate from all this stuff.” 

“What happened?” 

“Um,” he says. “I got in a fight. At work.” 

The doctor leans forward in her chair. “What kind of fight?”

Ian sighs. “The punching kind.” 

“Ian,” she says. 

“I know. Look, I know how that sounds. But it was defending myself. He said–”

“That doesn’t matter,” she says. “It’s a red flag. If you can’t control your temper, you need to be aware that you are exhibiting problematic behavior.” 

Ian fights a groan. He hates this. Hates how everything could be a symptom. Could be “problematic behavior.” 

“No,” he says. “No. Look, this was different. This wasn’t a manic thing. Sometimes shit just happens.” He catches himself, fingers tapping his lip. “Sorry,” he says. “I mean, stuff happens.” 

“Tell me.” 

Ian opens up, tells her everything. Tells her about Danny, about McGinley and the fight. Tells her about cutting his hours at Bowman, the long hours at Emerald. He tells her about Amanda and the updated schedules. He hesitates, then says “I started a...a relationship.” 

“Really?” The doctor smiles that smile again. “That’s wonderful. How do you feel?” 

Ian nods. “Good, mostly.” He smiles. “I mean, I really like...him. I worry about screwing stuff up if I get sick. I guess that’s why I wanted to come in and check with you. I don’t want to spring any of my stuff on him.” 

“Does he know about your bipolar?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, and I have meds at his house and everything.” He feels a little shy. It’s one thing to bring up a boyfriend. It’s another to allude to staying overnight at his house. 

“Have you noticed any new or recurring symptoms since this relationship began?” 

Ian squints a little. “I–” he begins. “I don’t understand.” 

“Sexual side effects? Impotence? Lack of interest?” 

“No,” Ian says quickly, covering the last of her words. He’s an adult. He shouldn’t be embarrassed, but he is.

“Okay,” the doctor says. “What about hypersexuality?” She turns to type something in the computer. He wonders what she’s typing. What is she typing? She gives him a smile. “Noticing anything out of the ordinary?”

Ian clenches his teeth. “I mean, no.” He sighs. This part has always been a little tricky, and something they don’t talk about often. There’s been no reason to for a long time. “I mean, I–I’ve been really enjoying, you know, that. We both have. I don’t think it’s abnormal or anything. It’s still pretty new, so we’ve been...you know.” He rubs his hands on his knees. “Having sex a lot and stuff. But it’s not like that.” 

The doctor nods. “Well, I’m glad you seem to have found someone you are comfortable with. That’s wonderful news.”

“Thanks,” Ian says. He relaxes. 

“I will tell you, though,” the doctor says. “I don’t think decreasing any of your meds is a good idea at this point in time. Let’s get you closer to the end of the year and we’ll talk about it again. Let’s get you past the end of summer and through fall. You’ll be working so much we really can’t risk it. ” 

Ian nods. “Okay. Okay I guess.” 

“Good,” she says. She holds her hand out. “I’d love to see your charting. Is it something you’re willing to share?” 

Ian’s fingers play with the spiral binding. “Um,” he says. “I don’t know. I mean, I brought it. But now I’m not sure.” 

The doctor nods. “It’s okay,” she says, pulling her hand back. “I appreciate that you brought it in. I’m glad you’ve been charting again. Have you noticed a difference?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m glad I’m doing it.” 

“Fantastic,” the doctor says. “I’m glad you come in.” She claps her hands on her knees before she stands up. She bends back toward the computer and clicks around on the mouse. “I’ll send in your prescriptions. Would you like to come back next month?” 

Ian shrugs. ‘Sure. Okay.” 

The doctor extends her hand. “It’s nice to see you doing so well. “

“Thanks,” Ian says, and he means it. 

The doctor walks him over to the reception desk. “One month,” she tells the woman at the front desk. Not the woman by the bell and window, but the scheduler, the one who makes the appointments. The two women share a small space, back to back. Ian tries to look out the window, but he can’t see anything. He looks back down at the scheduler. She usually has candy in a little glass dish. Ian eyes a butterscotch.

“You can have one,” she says, and pushes the dish closer to him. 

“Thanks,” Ian says. He carefully unwraps it and slips the wrapper into his pocket. He hears the clanging of that bell. The receptionist opens the window, and when she pulls it back Ian can see a woman crying. His mouth is full of butterscotch, sweet and thick tasting. The woman keeps running her hand over her hair and pulling hard. _I’m sorry,_ she keeps saying. _I’m sorry._

“How about September 7th?” 

Ian tears his eyes away from the crying woman’s face. “What?” 

“September 7th. You still like mornings?” 

“Um,” Ian says. “Yeah, that’s good.” 

He sees the receptionist reach over, just above the security camera images, and flick up on a little lightswitch. Two red lights switch on in the hall. 

“Do you want a reminder card?” 

“What?” Ian says again. He can’t believe the scheduler is just talking like nothing is happening. “Sorry, what’d you say?” 

“It’s okay,” the scheduler says quietly. “Just stay calm. Keep your eyes on me.” 

Ian feels nauseous. He thinks of how he showed up in crisis mode, that time with Amanda, her morning sickness, Ian’s paranoia. Thinks of how quickly that doctor–not his doctor, but a doctor– had met him at the door. 

Ian doesn’t listen to the scheduler. He turns to find the red lights, watches two doctors come out of their offices and head toward him. For a moment he panics. 

“Eyes on me,” the scheduler says. He pushes his eyes her way. “Sometimes it helps them stay calm.” 

_Them._ Ian knows she doesn’t mean it like that, but it feels exactly like that. The other receptionist, the one at the window, says something quietly and closes the window as the doctors round the corner. She reaches over and hits the little buzzer that unlocks the door.

One of the doctors hangs back while the other doctor encourages the woman to come in. She begins to cry harder. She keeps saying, “I fucked up. I fucked up.” Ian wants to look at her, look at her and try to say _we all fuck up. It’s okay._ But he knows that when it gets this bad, extra eyes on you is the last thing you need. He can’t hear what the doctor says. The woman says “I fucked up so bad.” She cries harder, and before the doctor can say anything, she brings up her hand and slaps herself in the face. Hard. The doctor comes closer, and his words are soft and soothing. She lets herself be touched on her arm, a hand that guides her to a room. She cries harder. Ian blinks his eyes fast. His cheek, his head, burns with his own memories. Hands. Slaps. Fists. Tears.

The receptionist leans over again and shuts off the light switch. She twists in her chair and begins quietly typing something on the computer. The scheduler hands him the reminder card. Her handwriting is large and looped, like cursive but not exactly. He doesn’t say anything. He just backs away from the desk and heads for the door. He reaches for the door handle, but the window receptionist says “It’s on lockdown. Sorry. Just a minute.” Ian’s breath is fast and heavy. She presses the button again. There’s a buzz, and he grabs for the handle again. He pushes and pulls against it. Fight or flight. Fight or Flight. Flight.

The receptionist's voice is soothing. "Just a minute, hold on. Let go of the handle." Ian lets his hand drop. She presses the button again. It buzzes, but Ian can hardly hear it. “Okay, you’re good to go.” 

The candy in his mouth is too sweet. It rolls his stomach. He looks over and sees the camera, feels it on his skin.

He rushes out of the office, down the stairs, out into the morning. He shoots the butterscotch out of his mouth and it rolls somewhere in the parking lot. He gags. Spits. His hands are sweaty. Shaking. He shoves the reminder card into his pocket and runs toward the el. He can still taste that taste in his mouth. He can feel that trapped feeling in his body. Showing up like that. Locked inside like that. That warning light. The wildness. The wilderness. _I fucked up. I fucked up. I’m sorry._

He runs faster.

*

It’s hard not to touch him at the site. Really hard. He can’t even look at Mickey’s hands. His _hands._ It’s never happened before, like that. Mickey taping drywall, taking his time, sliding his hands this way and that. Ian often finds his mouth hanging open, breath hitched. 

It’s been three weeks since Mickey shared his past, and one week since he sat in his doctor’s office. In that time, things have grown deeper. Deeper into Mickey. He’s all Ian hopes for, aches for, thinks about. It’s the wire behind the wall of his body, beneath the wall that Mickey slides against like skin. Safely hidden, safely held.

Something happened with Danny. He ended up backing off the job, and Ian was glad. Kowalski was the one who delivered the news, and there was little fanfare. Ian had been holding his breath, so hopeful Kowalski wouldn’t find out about the fight. If Kowalski knew anything, he didn’t say anything. 

Still, there was one distracting element to at all. There was a feeling of shadow, of something looming behind him. It was almost like the feeling when he was manic and paranoid. Something just out of view. Someone watching. Every time he’d feel it, he’d look around quickly. There was nothing there. He knew there was nothing there. His searching was a reflex. It was a tired, confusing reflex, but a reflex nonetheless.

He’s running out of things to do here. At least for right now. He’s back to 4 days at Bowman, and then 1 day here, but sometimes goes to Bowman instead. If he doesn’t see Mickey every couple of days, he feels like it’s been weeks. Mickey is tired lately. Taping and hanging drywall is hard, and his arms and shoulders and hands ache. Sometimes he’s even too tired and sore for sex, but on those days, Ian turns him on his stomach, straddles his waist, and glides lotion around back, shoulders, arms. Sometimes things escalate from there. Mickey starts pressing into the mattress, or Ian slides his flingers between Mickey’s, bends down to kiss his neck. Sometimes Ian spoons behind him, thrusting up, hand sliding around Mickey’s hip to grip him. Sometimes Mickey turns onto his back and asks Ian to go hard, go fast, the pressure and pleasure shouting over the soreness in his muscles. 

But mostly it’s Mickey. Just Mickey, floating in Ian’s mind, in front of everything else. Looking out the window of the train. Making lunch. Doing push ups, breath heavy. He thinks of him when he swallows his meds. Thinks of him, wants to be healthy for him. For himself. For them.

He’s just dropping by, today. He finished up at Bowman early and decided to swing by. He wants to check in on Jamal and check that he finished wiring the front hall. He’s glad that Kowalski hired Jamal on. He’s fast and thorough, and Ian can’t ask for much more. Between the two of them, they’ve managed most wiring in a week. They had to work around some things, but they got most of it done. 

Ian runs up the cracked front steps. They’ll need to get to that, eventually. Mickey says it’ll probably be the last. Jamal is in the kitchen talking with the guys who plan to tile. One of them is McGinley. Things have been cordial between them, and he’s glad. 

“So how are we?” Ian says. “Got a plan?” 

“Yeah,” Jamal says. “We can’t do much yet. Gotta get a plan for the backsplash but the cabinetry has to get installed first. You and I gotta talk about how we’ll do appliances and Kowalski’s talking about uplights.” 

“Okay,” Ian says. He puts his hands on his hips and look at the ceiling. “Okay, well let’s get a couple things drawn up so we have options. Sound good?” 

“Yeah, man.” 

Kowalski takes a step closer. “And we gotta do windows still. We gotta do that before the tile. Window’s aren’t in til next week.” 

Ian breathes out. “Shit. Okay.” He looks up at the ceiling and around the room. “Okay.” He looks over at McGinley. “Mickey upstairs?” 

McGinley nods. “I was gonna go up. Want me to send him down?” 

Ian shakes his head. “It’s okay. I’ll go up.” He turns back to Jamal. “You wanna get started with write-up?” He nods. “Cool.” 

Ian takes the stairs two at a time. It’s empty except for Mickey, hands moving against the drywall. Ian doesn’t want to startle him, but Mickey hears his footsteps. 

“What.” 

Ian chuckles under his breath. “Grouchy, huh?” 

Mickey glances over his shoulder, grinning. “Oh. Hey.” 

“Hey.” Ian leans against the doorway, smiling. 

“Wasn’t expecting you here,” Mickey says, turning back to his work. “Get done early?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. He pushes himself away from the doorway and makes his way to the window. They are still covered with plastic. The carpenter made new window frames where the old wood rotted. Some were salvageable. Some were able to be patched. He pokes at the plastic. “So we’re getting windows in next week?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Delay cause of all the rain.” He looks over his shoulder again, grinning. It rained twice last week, hard enough that they had to stop early. Hard enough that they ran to find a bed. 

Ian laughs. “Gotcha.” He makes his way over. “Do you want anything?” 

Mickey gives him a sidelong glance. “Watch your words, Gallagher.” 

“Why?” Ian shrugs. “I’m just wanting to see what I can do for you. I'll do whatever you want.” 

“Heh heh,” Mickey says under his breath. He drops his voice. “I’ll let you know what I want later,” he says. “Can I come over?” 

Ian runs his hand up the drywall and helps Mickey hold it. “Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, come over. I’ll even make you dinner.” 

Mickey smiles, and his hand brushes over his, just a little. “Hold it like this,” he says, slipping his hand over Ian’s, sliding it up the wall. 

Ian swallows. “Like this?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly. 

Ian keeps his hand there as Mickey tapes. He looks over at him a few times, watching his brow furrow in concentration. He smiles. 

“‘K,” Mickey says. “That’s good.” 

Ian brings his hand down. His arm aches. He rubs at it as Mickey laughs. “Now you know how I feel.” His eyes slide down Ian’s body. He smiles. 

“So you want me to go?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah. I mean, I guess when you’re done talkin’ with Jamal. McGinley still down there?” 

“Yeah. Want me to send him up?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “He was supposed to come up earlier. Send him up.” 

Ian starts to step away. “I’ll see you later,” he says quietly. Mickey nods, smiling. 

Ian grins as he makes his way down the hall and heads for the steps. 

McGinley is standing there on the landing, face unreadable. 

Ian tries to wipe his expression clean. “Hey,” he says. “Mickey wanted to see you.” 

McGinley nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Was just waiting for you to get done.” 

Ian’s stomach flips like a fish on sand. Grasping. Gasping. “I’m done,” he says, dropping his eyes and trying to sound casual. What’s the chances that he even saw anything? Heard anything? “Just headed out.” 

He starts to head down the steps. He can feel McGinley staring at his back. He turns when he reaches the foot of the steps. 

“What?” Ian says. “You need something?” 

McGinley shrugs. “Didn't think so. Why, do _you_ need something?” 

“No,” Ian says, voice steady. 

McGinley doesn’t answer. He heads up the stairs and is out of sight. Ian’s heart pounds. Shit. Shit. He thinks of that woman at the doctor’s office. He touches his cheek. 

He shakes it off when Jamal comes closer. He is holding paper, paper that slides into Ian’s hand. He looks down at the numbers, words, lines. He know they should make sense to him. But he stares down at it, eyes sliding in and out of focus until he hears Jamal's voice saying “Are you okay?” Mickey is somewhere up there, hands on the wall. Should he tell him? He doesn’t know the answer. “Everything cool?” Jamal asks. Ian feels himself nodding, repeating “It’s cool. Yeah. This is just fine. It’s all gonna be fine.” 

*

His feet pound on the pavement. He can almost feel the steam rising from the sidewalk. At least the sun is lower in the sky. Mickey will probably be over soon. He should probably turn back. He doesn’t do either. 

He’s never worn headphones. It started when he ran at night. He wanted to be ready for whatever might fly toward him in the dark. Be ready for anything, fight or flight. He could do either, or both, sometimes. 

He can hear himself pant. His thoughts keep crossing over to McGinley, then backing off again. He’s decided to tell Mickey. He has to. He’s just trying to figure out how. He can feel Mickey’s worry like he can feel his own sweat on his back. There is an urge to protect that feels like it is flying out of his fingertips when he runs. 

What’s the worst that could happen, though? If he tells Mickey he saw McGinley there, what would he say? There’s no way he heard anything. They were talking quietly. And even if he did, hear, he could hear what? See what? It was what it was, and standing on a landing down the hall is a decent distance. 

Still. If he tells Mickey, it’s possible he pulls away again. Back into that game. That awkward closet with the crumbling walls. Ian pants hard as he rounds the corner. He winces against something pulling in his side. He doesn’t want Mickey to pull away, paranoid, defensive. 

He picks up his pace. He wants to get in the shower before Mickey comes over. There’s a little pain in his leg as he jogs in place at the corner. There’s a truth in him right now, a truth that keeps bubbling up to the surface whenever he thinks about Mickey. There are things he imagines, things he wants to ask for, craves. Things he’s never said out loud. 

Someone honks the horn, trying to turn over the crosswalk. Ian raises a hand in apology and darts across. Shower, he thinks. Run faster, get in the shower. Get out and make them food. He even went to the grocery store. It feels more like a date than it probably ever has. Things he wants to ask for, tell him. This isn’t pizza. It’s a real dinner. It means more. 

It’s a lot to ask of a package of chicken and a bag of spinach, a couple tomatoes and some rice from the back of the cabinet. But it’s a start.

*  
Mickey is the one to push him into the apartment, his hands already sliding around Ian as he kicks the door shut. 

“Hey,” Mickey says against his lips. 

“Hi,” Ian says quietly. The kiss quickly, more in a form of greeting than anything else. 

“Smells good in here,” Mickey says, pulling away. “You really cooked, huh?” He grins over his shoulder as he crosses to the kitchen. 

Ian laughs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, one of the few meals I can really make. It’s chicken with some spinach and tomatoes on it. You like that stuff?” 

“I like chicken,” Mickey says, laughing. He makes his way over to the pan on the stovetop. “This looks real good,” he says quietly. “Thanks.” 

Ian slides his hand up Mickey’s back. “You’re welcome.” 

It’s a domestic moment. It feels so different. It’s been like that, lately. Different. It’s not pizza rolls, not yanking off clothes. Not all the time, anyway. There are times like this. There are mornings when Mickey gets up first, makes coffee, pulls Ian’s pills out and brings them next to the bed. Those mornings when Mickey wakes him up by petting his hair or gliding against his forehead, saying quiet things like _I gotta get going. Your stuff is gonna be right here next to you._ Kissing him on the forehead as he slowly wakes up.

Mickey has started keeping his favorite beer in Ian’s fridge, and he crosses over to pull one out. He pops off the cap and takes a long drink. He reaches up for a glass, and Ian can hear him cracking ice out of the trays and shaking some into a glass. He’s about to ask if he’s going to have his beer on ice when Mickey heads over to the sink, fills it with water, and presents it to Ian. 

It’s a small gesture, but Ian can feel it everywhere. He feels himself smile, just a little, before he leans in to kiss him softly. 

“What was that for,” Mickey grins. “Water?” 

Ian kisses him again. “For thinking about me.” 

“Always think about you, asshole.” 

Ian chukles. “Hand me the plates.” 

Mickey does. “So you mad about havin’ to wait for the windows?” 

“No way,” Ian says. “Don’t worry about it. I’m slammed over at Bowman anyway.” 

Mickey sets his beer on the counter. “McGinley said he needs me to sign off on buyin’ the tile. Guy acts like he’s got a fire under his ass. He say anything to you?”

Ian hesitates. “I have to tell you something.” 

Mickey’s whole demeanor changes. He sets his shoulders, stands up straight. It’s a posture he does all day long. Chest out. Arms crossed, sometimes. Fight. It’s so different from how soft he can be, sometimes. “Tell me what.” 

“After we were talking,” Ian says carefully, “I saw McGinley standing on the landing.” 

Mickey doesn’t say anything for a minute. He shifts his jaw, reaches for his beer again. “You think he saw us?” 

Ian shakes his head. “I mean,” he says. “It’d be too far away to see us. He couldn’t see us from there. It wouldn’t be a straight shot. Even if he did, I don’t think he saw anything. Like your hand with mine, or…” 

Mickey clenches his teeth and wipes his hand on his forehead. “Fuck. He say anything?” 

Ian shakes his head. “No,” he says. 

“How’d he seem? Seem like he saw somethin’?” 

Ian hesitates. He was acting weird. Was he? Or maybe not. Maybe Ian was the one who was being weird about it. Probably. “No, I don't think so.” 

Mickey downs the other half of his beer. “Then we gotta just keep careful,” he says. 

“That’s it?” Ian is surprised at Mickey’s casual statement. 

Mickey shrugs. “Doesn’t matter.” 

There’s that warm feeling poured over him again, loosening his worried limbs. “Really?” 

“Sure,” Mickey says. He passes Ian the plates and tosses his bottle into the recycling with a clang. 

Ian puts some spinach and tomatoes onto Mickey’s plate too, and teases him when he wrinkles his nose. He gives him an extra heap of rice to make up for it. 

“This looks real good,” Mickey says quietly. He gets another beer from the fridge. Ian takes his glass and follows him to the table. “Thanks.” He smiles at him as he begins to cut his food. 

“You’re welcome,” Ian says. 

They eat quietly. Sometimes Ian feels Mickey’s eyes on him, and they smile at each other, but mostly he’s thinking. Hoping. Looking inside himself for courage. It’s so stupid, on some level, to be worried about this. But he is. 

There’s that thing he thought about while running. He doesn’t usually think about it. Never has. Not really, not this big, not like this. He feels his cheeks flush. He clears his throat. He reaches for his water glass, noting the small shake in his fingers. His brain automatically tells him it has to do with his meds. Ian knows that’s not the cause, this time. 

The ice bumps against his lips, the glass sweats beneath his hand. He looks up, looks at Mickey, and watches him cut the last of his chicken. Mickey sets his fork down as he chews. His hand reaches for his beer bottle. He finds Ian’s eyes. 

“What,” Mickey says. “What I do?” 

Ian shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says. “I was just looking at you.” 

Mickey takes a swig of his beer. “You’re lookin’ like how you look when you got something on your mind. What is it.” 

Ian’s thumb rubs against his glass. He leans forward. “I was just,” he begins. His throat feels dry. “Thinking about something.” He swallows. “But it’s not really–” he shrugs. “Just never mind. Really.” 

Mickey’s finger extends and he circles it in the air. “Out with it.” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. He feels that adrenaline, his limbs a little shaky. A rush of something through his body. It’s fear, uneasiness. He’s terrified. Terrified Mickey will say no, and probably just as terrified that he’ll say yes. 

“It’s dumb,” Ian says. “I don’t even know if it’s a good idea.” 

Mickey pushes his plate to the side and leans closer, elbows on the table. “Are you planning on killing someone?” 

“What?” Ian is thrown, just a second, before chuckling. “No.” 

“Then it’s probably an okay idea.” 

Ian huffs, shrugs again. He watches as Mickey’s tongue sweeps against the inside of his cheek. He raises his eyebrows. 

“This a sex thing?” 

Ian slides his hand against that water glass, dragging his thumb down and around. “Yeah,” he says quietly. 

Mickey chuckles. “Then what’s the problem?” 

Ian smiles, just a little, as he feels that worry in his legs again. “It’s just–” he begins. “I don’t know if you’d like it or not.” 

“Try me.” 

Ian pushes his plate to the side too. “I’ve been thinking,” he says. “I keep thinking I might wanna maybe–” He lets it sit there for a minute. He breathes out heavily. “Fuck, I don’t know why this is so hard all of a sudden.” 

“Take your time,” Mickey says quietly. He even reaches his hand across the table. It looks so sweet, there. F U C K. “It’s okay.” 

Ian looks at Mickey's hand, but doesn't take it. Not yet. He takes a deep breath. “Been thinking about you. I keep thinking about, you know, bottoming for you." He can’t meet Mickey’s eyes. He watches as Mickey’s fingers get closer, brush against his. Ian opens his hand, lets Mickey’s hand in. 

“Really?” Mickey’s voice is soft. “What brought that on?” 

Ian looks at their hands, not his face. He’s not ready to see what’s on his face, yet. “I don’t know,” he says, because he doesn’t. “I just thought about it.” 

“When?” 

Ian cracks a smile. “Like an hour ago.” He can look up, then, so he does. Mickey smiles back at him. 

“So it’s well-thought out, then,” Mickey says, grinning. “Not an impulse decision.” 

Ian shakes his head softly. “I know,” he says. “I know that it seems like that, but I’ve–I’ve actually thought about it before. With you.” 

Mickey’s fingers hold tighter. “Really?” 

Ian nods. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Don’t do that.” 

“Don’t do what?” 

“Do what you’re doing with your face.” 

Ian raises his eyebrows. “Doing what with my face?” 

“Lookin’ like you’re about to talk yourself out of this.” He grins, and lets his other arm raise up, reaches across to hold Ian’s other hand. “You don’t gotta.” 

“It’s just–” Ian says. “I don’t know. I don’t know if I even want it. I just can’t stop thinking about it.” 

Mickey nods. “You know,” he says slowly. “We can try. If it feels weird or you change your mind, we’ll just stop.” 

Ian nods. “Really?"

Mickey's eyes fly open wide. "Of course really! What kind of person do you think I am?"

"Sorry," Ian says. "Just feel awkward."

"It's okay," Mickey says softly. "I know it's kinda hard to ask for stuff." He gestures toward Ian with his free hand. "But it can be good. You know. I mean, obviously. Look what we done so far."

Ian nods, and they fall quiet. Mickey's thumb brushes back and forth against the back of Ian's hand. 

Ian swallows hard. "When?” 

Mickey's finger presses in a little harder. “Whenever you want.” 

Ian looks over at the bed. “I’m not sure I’m ready tonight,” he says. “Maybe another day, so I can, like, get ready…” 

Mickey nods. “Have you done this before?” 

Ian pauses, then nods. “It’s not like this, though.” He swallows. “I did it when I wasn’t really...like, I wasn’t really all there when I did it before.” He doesn’t know how to explain, doesn’t want to. “It was just the once. Didn’t really like it.” 

“And here I was thinkin’ you were a gold star,” Mickey says. He breathes out a smile. “I’m sorry,” he says. “Go ahead."

“It's okay.” He shifts in his seat. “The–when I did it that time I didn’t really want to.” Mickey’s eyes widen. “No, no no,” he says. “Not like that. I agreed to it. I wanted it, I thought. I just wasn’t in the best headspace. The,” he lets his pull away. “The bipolar,” he says. “Well, not so much the bipolar, but not being treated for it. Just taking drugs at the club. I feel like I was barely even there. Was really quick, too.” 

Mickey nods. “It hurt?” 

Ian thinks of it, the nameless guy in the bathroom at The Fairy Tale. It felt like a power play. Ian started it, up on the block, kept it going during the guy’s private dance. It wasn’t long before Ian realized the guy was obviously a top himself. The drugs in Ian’s system relaxed him enough, relaxed him into a place he hadn’t been before. Yielding. Obedient. It was a quick fumble, Ian’s gold shorts pulled down, the other guy’s fist on his cock as he was turned around, fingers trying to grip the broken tiles above the toilet. 

He nods. “Yeah,” Ian says. “Not as bad when it was happening, but a lot after, yeah.” 

Mickey nods. “Drugs aren’t good with this. Can’t feel stuff right."

Ian looks at the lines on his kitchen table, the little lines in the wood, interrupted by Mickey’s plate, his own. “It was over pretty fast,” he says. “I didn’t come. Couldn’t even stay hard.” 

Mickey breathes out deeply. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, that sounds pretty much the opposite of what we should do.” 

Ian perks up. “What we should do?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Well, yeah.” His eyes are so bright. “I mean, if you want to.” 

“What about you, though?” 

“What about me?”

Ian’s leg jiggles under the table. “Would you even want to? I'll understand if you don't."

Mickey reaches for his hands again. “Course I want to," he says "I've thought about it before."

"Yeah?" 

"Yeah,” he says. “If it’s gonna make you feel good, then why not? Just hope I can do it right.” 

Ian can see that insecurity, just a second, and then he’s back. “You can do it right,” Ian says softly. “I trust you.” The wave of whatever it is flows through his body, his stomach dropping and drifting, legs floating. 

“Hope so,” Mickey says quietly. 

He remembers what Mickey said before, about the alley guys. _Just fucking and getting fucked._ "You've done it though? Right?” 

Mickey nods. “I mean, technically, yeah, but I’d hardly say it counts.” 

“What do you mean? Like, if you–” 

“Ian,” he says, voice somewhere between calming and annoyed. “My alley topping experience is as earth-shattering and skilled as my alley bottoming.” 

He fights a smile. “So how would this work?” 

Mickey stands up slowly and walks around the table. Ian leans back in his chair, breath shaky. Mickey gets closer. “You pick a day,” he says, sliding his leg over Ian and settling on his lap. “A day you feel ready,” His hand grips the back of his chair. “And I’ll...I’ll be there for you like that. I’ll do it.” 

Ian’s breath is unsteady. Ian’s eyes slip to the side, focusing on Mickey’s strong arm that grips his chair tight He needs, wants to hear it. “Do what?” 

“Top you,” Mickey says, accentuating his words with a single slow thrust. 

Ian sighs, dragging a hand up Mickey’s back and pulling him closer. He gasps.

Mickey’s forehead slips down to meet his. “Want to make you feel as good as you make me feel.” 

Ian reaches for him with both hands. “You always make me feel good,” he pants. 

Mickey begins to rock in his lap. “Wanna know how you feel inside. Feel you around me.” 

Ian moans. He tips his head back in the chair, lets Mickey rock against him, trying to stay still as Mickey’s hand rises to find the back of his head. “Oh fuck, Mick.” 

Mickey holds onto his hair and pulls him in for a wet, sloppy kiss. “You got a great ass,” he says. “You think you can open it up for me? If I help teach you?” 

Ian can hardly breathe. “Oh fuck,” he says again. He tries to thrust up against Mickey, but Mickey is holding his body down with his. It makes him feel so safe, letting go like this, letting himself be weighted, let Mickey be in charge. “Yeah,” he says. “Oh yes. Please.” 

Mickey hums against his mouth. “Wanna make it good for you.” He kisses him again. “You gonna wanna do it face to face?” 

Ian nods, and his hands finally raise up to either side of Mickey’s face. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I wanna be able to see your face.” 

“Me too,” Mickey says. 

Ian’s hand drops to Mickey's ass and squeezes gently. “Tomorrow,” Ian whispers, voice shaky.

“Tomorrow?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. He reaches for Mickey’s face and kisses him hard. “I want you to. Tomorrow.” 

Mickey kisses him back, harder this time. He groans when they part. “Okay,” he says. He begins to lift himself off his lap. “Tomorrow.” 

Ian nods fast, eyes traveling over Mickey’s body. His fingers grip the bottom of the chair. 

“Tonight we’re doin’ this,” Mickey says. He pulls Ian’s legs apart and settles between them. “Okay?” 

Ian nods fast. “Yeah,” he breathes fast. “Yeah.” 

Mickey pulls Ian’s sweatpants down, and Ian groans as his hand moves him up and down. Fuck, he’s beautiful. He cries out with relief when Mickey’s mouth pulls him in. Every inch of him is buzzing. His hand slides down, fingers soft against Mickey’s hair. He tries to relax his whole body, let himself be completely taken by Mickey, just like he wants.

_Tomorrow_ he thinks. His hips push up without meaning to, but Mickey allows it. He whispers an apology and leans back in the chair, breath heavy and fast. _Tomorrow._ He wants to say _No, wait. Not tomorrow._ Say _No, I mean today. I mean right now. Today._

“Mickey,” he whispers, and it’s supposed to be a warning as his stomach coils, but it sounds so much like thank you. “Mickey, you’re so good to me.” 

He doesn’t know where it comes from, just that it’s there, and he said it, and that he means it. Mickey hums a little, fingertips squeezing and relaxing against one hip. “Mickey,” he says again. There’s that unspoken word on his lips. That word love. 

When Ian comes, he feels his ass clench. Maybe it does all the time, he doesn’t know. He’s never really thought about it. Like this. This much. He only knows that his head is swimming, and when he sees Mickey’s dick is still hard, he yanks him out of the chair and tosses him back on the bed, pulling his clothes off as fast as he can.

He travels down Mickey’s body, mouth hitting all the sensitive places, all the places he’s learned so far. Mickey gasps as Ian takes him in his mouth. Ian can taste him, can feel him on his tongue, hot and thick, foreskin smooth. He gives a light slide of teeth, just to hear the noise that Mickey makes. He hums when Mickey's hands find his head, pressing him down against him with just the slightest pressure, exactly the right amount. Ian hums again as his lips pull faster.

Mickey's close. He's really close. His moan bounces off the ceiling. Ian sinks lower. He closes his eyes, then opens them as Mickey's legs shake. Their eyes meet as he comes. It's so much, so much all at once. 

Ian lifts his head, and they watch each other as they catch their breath. Mickey smiles, and Ian smiles too. 

"Feel so good," Ian says, slowly moving up Mickey’s body. "Love-" he stops, and there a short moment when they look at each other, barely breathing. Ian swallows. "Love having sex with you."

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. You too.”

Ian settles down next to him. His eyes find that spot on the ceiling again. 

“Here,” Mickey says, pulling on Ian’s arm as he turns on his side. 

Ian nuzzles into Mickey’s neck. His fingers glide down Mickey’s arm. Mickey’s hand finds his, and they lace together like that, shared fist falling somewhere near Mickey’s heart, palms nestled together like two mouths whispering.


	10. Air

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cold air, warm air, breathing in and out.

When he came into Bowman this morning, Hayley passed him a thick stack of requests. “You and I gotta keep in contact,” she said. “I’m gonna have to get some other guys on this if you start falling behind.” 

“Not gonna happen,” Ian said, looking through the first few papers. “These are all way north,” he said. “As long as I get up there okay, I should be fine.” 

“You’re really cocky, you know that?” 

“That’s what they tell me.” 

“I suppose they do,” Hayley said, raising an eyebrow. 

“Har har,” he said. “I’ll talk with you later.” 

And now it’s later, and he’s tired, and he can’t stop watching the clock. Every work order is in it’s own little box inside himself. He checks them one by one. One visit closer to driving back, going home, getting in the shower, getting ready for Mickey. The wheel feels clammy under his grip. 

There’s one more. Residence. An older guy comes to the door. 

“Mr. Lishman?” 

“I’m Ned. Yes,” he says. He openly looks Ian up and down. “You must be from Bowman. My wife told me she put in a call for a tune-up.” 

He extends his hand, and Ian takes it. He breaks the contact quickly when he feels it linger. “Ian Gallagher.” 

“Gallagher,” he repeats. “I thought you might be irish.” 

“Not exactly,” Ian says. “I mean, at some point, yeah, I guess part of me was.” He looks around the room. 

“Come on in,” Ned says, sweeping a hand to the left. 

Ian doesn’t leave the door. He doesn’t like to come into houses unless he absolutely has to. Not with men, anyway. He knows he could hold his own, if it had to be that way, but he doesn’t risk it. It makes him anxious. “Is your air conditioner on the side of the house or the back?” 

Ned pauses and turns. “The side. South side.” 

Ian nods. “Do I need to be let through the gate? I noticed you have a gate.” 

Ned nods. “Why don’t you give me a moment and I’ll follow you out.” 

Ian opens the door and steps out. He shifts his feet and waits. It all just reminds him of the club. All of this shit. Every time he thinks he’s going to be done with these guys, another one arrives to take the last one's place. It’s been like this since he was 14 years old.

Ian hears a buzz, and the side gate begins to open. Ned comes around the corner. “It’s just over here,” he says. 

Ian makes his way over and hears the unit roaring. He squats down and pokes around the outside before he says, “I need you to go shut off the fuse. Is there a place where you can watch me from the inside instead? I can just wave when you can turn it back on.” 

He twists around and sees Ned staring down at him. “I’d love to watch you,” he purrs. 

Ian grits his teeth. “Look,” he says lowly. “I’m just trying to do my job." It's the last time he'll warn him. His hand forms into a fist and releases. Fight.

Ned lifts his hands. “No complaints here,” he says. “I’m happy to help.” 

Ian follows him back down the walk, heads to his van in the carport. He fidgets with his tools, eyes sideways, waiting for Ned to leave. Eventually he hears the roar stop, and he heads over again. 

He can feel Ned’s eyes on him through the window. He checks for leaks and cracks. He waves up at Ned. “Turn it on again,” he shouts. In a couple minutes, it whirrs to life again. 

Ian gestures toward the van. Ned reappears at the front door. “It looks good from outside,” Ian says. “Any trouble with the thermostat?” 

“Why don’t you come in and check?” 

Ian doesn't move from the doorway. The glass door holds him back, one small space, inches from all of this, this ugly thing. He breathes in deeply. He is about to speak when he sees her. 

There is a woman in a silk nightgown walking down the stairs. She is holding a martini glass. “What is he doing here?” 

“He’s here to check the air conditioner.” 

The woman picks the olive out of her glass. “Why?” 

Ian looks over at Ned again. “Everything looks just fine here,” he says. “Cash, check, or credit?” 

“Cash,” Ned says, smiling. He signs the work order and counts out some bills. “How about this is just for you,” he says, and drops two fifty dollar bills on the clipboard. 

Ian has been here, before. Scraping up money from old guys, more than happy to look grateful and slink around. That was another life, and he’s a different person. A healthier person. A stronger person. He's having a hard time breathing.

 _Trigger,_ he thinks. _That's what it is. What this is. What's happening. This is what his doctor says. Amanda says. Books. It's a trigger. He’s being triggered. Just loosen your hand, just back your finger up. Drop the gun, son. It doesn't have to be like this. Just slow down. Focus. Lean into the trigger, just a little, while you recognize what it is. Lean back, see the shape of things again. Then back away, put your hand down._

Ian takes a deep breath. “We can’t accept tips,” Ian says, pushing the bills back toward Ned with a drag of his pen.

“No one has to know,” Ned says quietly. “Come on. Take it.” 

Ian picks up the money and pushes it toward him. “Mr. Lishman,” he says sternly, the way he used to say _can’t turn tricks_ when the hands began to fall too hard against him at the club, start to pull, start to whisper with sour breath into his ear. “I cannot accept this money.” 

“Oh, just take the money,” the woman slurs, a sharp edge in her voice. “He likes to give pretty boys money.”

Oh, fuck it. He's done playing nice. "I said no," Ian says, trying to keep the waver out of his voice. He pulls the money off his clipboard and lets the bills drop to the floor. “Have a good afternoon,” he says.

He steps away from the threshold and lets the door shut. He steps quickly to the car and starts it up. He doesn’t wait to fill out and mark the work order, sitting in the driveway for a few minutes like he usually does. He drives a few blocks away before he pulls over. His hands are shaking when he makes the call. 

It rings three times, and Ian is about to end it when Amanda’s voice picks up. She has barely said hello before Ian realizes he’s almost crying. 

“What’s wrong? Ian, what happened?” 

“I just got really scared,” Ian says, and he bursts into tears. 

*

Somewhere between the quick breakdown over the phone with Amanda and returning on site to Bowman, Ian stops the van at a Shell station and goes inside for a bottle of water. He pays, and when he gets back into the van he just sits there, drinking his water and gathering his thoughts. 

Hayley answers right away. “How many do you got left?’ 

Ian shakes his head hard but realizes she can’t see him. “I need to talk to Don,” he says. 

“He’s out smoking or something.” 

“Hayley, I need you to go out and get him. I’ll wait. I need to talk to him before I come back.” 

While Ian waits, he stares down at the work order. The name on it isn’t a woman’s name. Ian makes some marking on it. He opens up the metal compartment on his clipboard and puts the money inside. He pulls out a post it note and writes “red flag - Ian.”

It’s overwhelming how much he was affected by this. He never thinks about this sort of thing. Older men pressed against him. Old guys with wedding rings and drugs in their pockets. Fingers grabbing at him even if they aren’t supposed to. Men with wad after wad of cash spilling from pockets like some sort of magician. Ian in a haze, his body moving this way and that way, however they wanted. Purple lights pressing against him, his eyes not able to focus, not able to distinguish one face from the next.

He breathes in and out, and with every outward breath he reminds himself he is somewhere else, someone else. He is healthy. He is healing. He doesn’t need to accept this shit anymore. Not their looks. Not their hands. Not their money. He doesn’t have to let it in. 

“You okay, Gallagher?” Don’s voice is worried and breathless. Ian imagines him rushing up the stairs. _Safety is your number one goddamm priority_ he always says. _Safety first, then customer satisfaction.”_

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, I just really need to talk to you about what happened in case this guy calls. I know I’m on thin ice with you right now, it’s just that I got really fucking freaked out back there, and I don’t know if he’s gonna complain or what, but I tried to get out of there because he kept on–” 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Don says. His voice is kind. “What happened? Are you okay? Tell me.” 

*

“So that all just happened,” he says to Mickey over the phone. 

“Shit. What’d Don say?” 

“He asked me if I wanted do something formal about it, but I don’t. I just wanna make sure I don’t see him again. I just really thought I would get in trouble. I mean, after that fight, I–”

“Look,” Mickey says. “What happened back there ain't your fault. It’s some fuckin’ creep’s fault. You know that, right?” 

Ian looks out the window. His train stop is coming up. “Thanks,” he says. “I know, I’m just kinda–”

“What’s his fucking address,” Mickey says, voice low and harsh. “I’m fucking serious."

Ian feels himself relaxing, breathing deeper. This is Mickey’s version of being romantic, and it’s rough and sweet and shows how fiercely he feels things. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s over. I wanna think about good things. Like you.” 

He can hear Mickey smile. “Yeah, but let's just shelve everything tonight,” he says. “Sounds like it’s been a big day.” 

“Nah,” Ian says, standing up and grabbing onto a pole as the train slows. “Nah, I’m going home right now and get ready. Are you home now or no?” 

“Not yet,” he says. “Soon though. Might lay down.” 

“Do you wanna just text me?” 

“No,” Mickey says. His voice drops. “No, I wanna see you as soon as fuckin’ possible. I'll feel better when I see you. Otherwise I'm gonna hunt this geriatric fuck down and-"

"I wanna see you, too," he says with the smallest laugh, He runs down the steps. "Look, I'm okay, I promise. I'll be there soon, okay?"

“Okay,” MIckey says. “Yeah, okay.” 

*

He feels better after his shower. Calmer. He putters around the kitchen for a while. Eats an orange. He keeps checking his phone to see if Mickey texted, even though he said he wouldn’t.

The more he waits, the more anxious he gets, and the more anxious he gets, the more excited he gets. The harder it is to wait. “Screw it,” he says quietly into the air, and shuts the door behind him. 

The train is running late, but it doesn’t take that long. His limbs feel a little jumpy, and his palms sweat. He keeps catching himself breathing fast. 

When he finally reaches Mickey’s stop, he shuffles into an easy jog on the way to Mickey’s door. He knocks. Knocks a little louder. Mickey opens the door. 

“Hi,” Mickey says. His voice sounds like he’s been sleeping. He backs up. “You wanna come in?” 

Ian hesitates. The reality of it all comes crashing against him. He feels wobbly.

“Okay, do you wanna go out?” Mickey says, smiling. 

Ian nods. “Can we–can we just walk around a little?” He feels the nerves in his body, that adrenaline. He’d be running if he wasn’t here with Mickey. 

“Sure,” Mickey says. He pats his pocket for cigarettes. “Hold on a sec.” 

He leaves the door open. Ian can see Mandy in the kitchen. She’s washing a heap of pates and wipes at her forehead. She turns to face him. “Hey,” she says. “You guys goin’ on a date?” 

“Fuck off,” Mickey says around the unlit cigarette in his mouth. 

“Just asking,” she says, smiling. 

Mickey shakes his head. “Let’s go,” he says, pulling the cigarette out of his mouth. He closes the door behind him and Ian follows him down the stairs. 

Mickey lights his cigarette. “Where we goin’?” 

Ian shrugs. “I don’t know. I just wanted to, like, think about this.” 

“We don’t have to–” 

“No,” Ian says. “No. I want to. I’m just nervous. I don’t even know where we’re gonna do it.” 

“Up to you,” Mickey says, “Where’d you feel better?” 

Ian shifts his feet. “I–I guess my place?” 

Mickey nods, and they start walking to the el station. They fall in step easily. They slow down below the train tracks. Ian scratches hard at his arm. Scratches a little harder. 

Mickey’s hand comes out and rests on his hand, the hand scratching. It’s only for a second, but Ian eases under his touch. “It’s okay,” Mickey says. “Don’t have to do that.” 

Ian looks down at his arm after Mickey pulls his hand away. There’s a moment of shame. A moment of shame when he realizes Mickey has probably noticed it before. He doesn’t know he’s been itching at it. It’s red, a couple angry lines from his fingernails. “I didn’t-” he says. “Didn’t even know I was doing it.” 

Mickey stops walking. “Hey,” he says. “You okay?” 

Ian looks at his arm again. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Yeah,” he says, a little louder. “It’s fine. I just start doing that sometimes when I was thinking about stuff.” _Worried about stuff_ he thinks. “It doesn’t hurt, I promise. I can stop. Looks worse than it is.” 

Mickey’s thumb slides over a line Ian’s nail left, and Ian fights a wince. “Look,” Mickey says softly. “Look, if this isn’t feelin’ right to you, we don’t have to do anything. Like, after everything that happened today, you know. If it's, I dunno, got you feelin bad." 

"It's fine," Ian says. "I mean it wasn't at the time, but I was able to de-escalate. You remember how I explained that?"

Mickey nods. "Yeah, like bein' able to pull back from the edge or whatever?"

"Yeah," Ian says. "Yeah. Like stop spiraling."

"Like your notebook stuff."

"And you," Ian says quietly. "You helped me slow down, too."

His voice is quiet. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

There's a bird somewhere making a lot of noise. Mickey's hand is still on his arm, and Ian never wants him to move it. 

"Look," Mickey says. "Just cause we planned all that tonight doesn’t mean we gotta go through with it.” He meets Ian’s eyes, and Ian breathes out. “We don’t.” 

Ian breathes deeply. “Really?” 

Mickey nods. “Course,” he says. “Of course really.” 

Ian breathes out, breath rushing from him. He doesn't know what to do. "Okay,” he says. “Okay. I just don’t know. I thought I was ready, but–” 

Mickey holds onto his arm a little tighter. It’s surprising he’s kept his hand on him, this long, right there under the tracks, in view of the street. “Ian,” he says. “We don’t gotta do this. Switch. You don’t have to. I don’t care. I don’t.” 

His eyes are bright blue. His hand is pale, callused, pressing soft and sure and a little sweaty on his arm. Ian feels his breathing start to slow. 

“Mickey,” he says. “I want to. I just want to let you know I want to, you know,” there’s something at the corners of his eyes, burning. “I want to let you know that I wanna,” he chances putting his hand over Mickey’s. Mickey quickly glances around, but takes a small step closer. Ian holds tight to his eyes. “Mickey, I wanna let you in like that. Want all of you like that. Inside me.” 

Mickey’s eyes move to Ian’s lips, and Ian finds himself doing the same. If they were somewhere else, somewhere with a door or a bed or wall, they’d bring their lips together, arms and hands, wet breath, tongues. Mickey’s eyes drop first, find his arm again, slowly lets it drop. He nods. 

“Mickey,” Ian says again. “I wanna let you in.” 

The weight of those words. The weight he can’t hold back. The train roars overhead, reaches the station with a screech. Mickey bites at his lip, lets it go. Ian’s hands ache to touch him. Mickey nods hard. “I know,” Mickey says. “I want that too.” 

“No,” Ian says. “No, I don’t just mean the–” 

“I know,” Mickey says.

The train pulls away and rumbles over them. “I’m trying,” Ian says. “I didn’t know there was more.” He thinks of the notebook on the counter, the little scars on his arm that Mickey has felt with his fingertips, but never has asked about. “I didn’t know there was more I wanted to show you.” 

MIckey swallows hard. Something twinges in his eyes. He nods. “Ian,” he says. His voice is not steady. He swallows again. He tightens his fingers on his arm. His eyes are just the slightest bit glassy. “Fuck,” he says under his breath. He pulls his hand away from Ian’s arms and presses his fingers into his eyes. “Fuck.” 

Ian blinks fast. “Should I go?” 

Mickey’s hand drops. “No,” he says. “Let’s go back. We don’t need to do anything. Let’s just go back. I don’t want you to go.” 

Ian nods, and they fall in step again as they make their way back to the Milkovich house. He tries to sneak looks at Mickey. He keeps blinking his eyes. Mickey stares straight ahead. They do not speak.

They meet Mandy out on the sidewalk. She looks at both of them. “What happened?” 

“What,” Mickey says. It’s even and neutral. 

“You guys look,” Mandy looks back and forth. “Mad.” 

Ian shakes his head. “Not mad,” he says. 

“Yeah, we’re not mad,” Mickey says. “You know what I look like fuckin’ mad.” 

“Not with a boyfriend,” Mandy says. 

Mickey shakes his head and looks over his shoulder. Ian can see him shift his feet. 

“What,” Mandy says. “Ian’s not your boyfriend?” 

Ian shoots a glance at Mickey. They’ve never said that. He’s never dared say the word. They are what they are, in the dark, in the morning. But he’s never heard Mickey say what he means, what they mean, who they are. 

“I mean,” Mickey says, shifting his feet again. “It’s none of your fucking business who he is.” 

Something sinks in Ian. He steps away a little bit. Mandy catches his eye and her face softens. “You know,” she says, attention swinging back to Mickey’s face. “I’m pretty sure he’s your boyfriend, Mick, even if you haven’t said it. Just wondering if you’re a couple or not.” 

Mickey turns to face Ian. He crosses his arms. He purses his lips, but Ian can see his eyes shifting back and forth quickly. 

“Course we are.” 

He says it with such certainty that it makes Ian’s stomach flip. He didn’t realize he’s been holding his breath, but he lets it out slowly. 

Mandy grins. “Good,” she says. “I wanted to hear you say that.” 

Mickey’s head tilts in frustration. “Well, congratufuckinlations. I said it.” 

Mandy’s grin grows wider. “I’m gonna go meet up with someone.” 

“Iggy here?” 

Mandy shakes her head. She glances at Ian, then back again. “Why, you guys got plans?” 

Mickey’s arms drop. “Is he here or not.” 

“Not,” Mandy says. “I don’t know where he is. Car’s gone though.”

“Good,” Mickey says. He pushes past her at runs up the stairs.

Ian gives her a little nod. He’s about to climb up the steps to join Mickey inside when Mandy goes “Hey.” 

“Yeah?” 

She gestures toward the house. “Pretty sure he’s starting to kinda fall in love with you.” 

Ian doesn’t know what to say. He feels his lips part. “What?” 

“You heard me,” she says. “And that’s not his thing."

Ian nods, a little confusion poking through. “What do you mean ‘his thing’?” he says. 

“Are you kidding?” Mandy snorts, staring into him. 

Ian isn’t sure how to respond. “I–” he says, but doesn’t say anything else. 

She grabs onto the fencepost and swings her body back and forth. “I like you,” she says. “I mean like I _really_ like you. A lot. And I think you’re good for him.” 

“I’m–” he says. “He’s good for me, too.” He feels his smile creeping out, his chest expanding. 

“You know what?” she asks, smiling. 

“What?” 

“You hurt him and I’ll shank you.” She swings closer to him and taps him on the chest. She raises a middle finger, grinning, and walks into the street. 

 

Mickey is picking through the freezer when Ian walks in. The muscles on his back move beneath his thin t-shirt. Ian feels that ache in his hands again. Wanting to touch Mickey, hold him, be held by him. It all bubbles up. Fast. Uncomplicated. Easy,

“We don’t got much,” Mickey says. “More fuckin’ pizza rolls. We could go get something if you want.” He picks up a frosted-over bag of something and squints at it. “I don’t know what the fuck this is. Ham?” 

Ian crosses over to where Mickey stands, hand on the handle, cold air a halo. He slides a hand up his back, sliding in the middle of his shoulder blades, up his neck and into his hair as he bends it. He wraps an arm around Mickey’s waist and gently presses his lips to Mickey’s neck. The cold air wraps around them. 

“Come here,” Ian says quietly. His arm begins to pull at his waist. He carefully turns them around until his own back is against the refrigerator, metal smooth against him. The sweat at his hairline cold against the freezer air. “Mickey,” he whispers, and his head falls back as Mickey’s fingers find his hips and press in. 

Mickey’s mouth finds his, kisses him hard and slow. One hand leaves his hip and finds his cheek. Ian breaks away to moan. The cold air is a contrast to Mickey’s hot mouth, which finds him again, tongue sweeping in. Ian’s hands slide around Mickey back, holding him close.

Something happens. It’s something racing into his body, something as strong as the cold on his neck, the layer of frost that lines the freezer walls. It’s completely overwhelming, and full of so much need it almost makes his legs buckle. 

Ian breaks away, breathless. “Mickey,” he gasps. “Mickey, I want you.” 

Mickey groans. The hand on Ian’s cheek returns to his hip. Mickey’s fingers grip him hard again before he begins to tentatively slide his palms down to meet Ian’s ass. 

Ian’s breath is fast, his skin sensitive. It’s the cold, it’s the heat, it’s Mickey. His breath shakes as Mickey’s hands slip lower, holding him completely, beginning to pull Ian closer to him. Ian whines when he feels his fingers press in, pulling him apart, just a little. He feels Mickey so hard against him. “Please.” 

Mickey’s hands drop away from his ass. He pulls him away from the fridge with one fist on his shirt. The other hand shuts the freezer. Ian expects them to move away from it completely, rush into Mickey’s room. But Mickey just presses him against it again, mouth on his his, hands pressing and sliding everywhere. He slots his leg between Ian’s, pressing against him, pressing them harder against the fridge. Ian feels himself shaking. His brain, the part of his brain that tries to hold onto control, keeps trying to push to the front. Keeps trying to take hold of Mickey, pull him this way and that way. Hold onto him, watch him, make sure he’s getting everything he needs, make sure Mickey’s getting everything he asks for, make sure he’s climbing and climbing, get him there first. Take care of him. Top him. He knows, in theory, this is just a sex position, but to him it's always felt like something more. 

His brain, that part of his brain, listens to the rest of Ian, little by little. Backs down. Relaxes. Relaxes so deep that only need remains. White hot, deep need. It’s just him, arching his back against the fridge, moaning as Mickey’s fingers find his hands, sliding their fingers together, sliding them up, clenching onto his palms, holding them down. There’s that place in Ian that grabs onto this, that tells him Mickey wants to be held hard, deep and even. Says he should follow their regular pattern. He feels that part of him starting to slide away, slide away under Mickey’s mouth that is hard against his neck, sucking and nipping, and there’s a sound that Ian doesn’t recognize. Doesn’t recognize, but his dry throat tells the truth. 

“Mickey,” he says, swallowing. “Mickey, I need you.” His knees are weak. They really are. His hands trembles under Mickey’s. He knows these words coming from him. _Mickey, I want. Mickey, I need._

There’s a sound in Mickey, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Come here,” he whispers, and he drops their hands to pull Ian closer, grabbing his ass again and pulling hard. He kneads at him as Ian gasps. It’s so new, so deep, and he wants it. 

Mickey leans back and pulls Ian away from the fridge. He breaks away, stands there. Ian’s eyes blink and focus. Mickey’s lips look swollen. His eyes are hooded and heavy. His hands clench against Ian again. 

“Let’s,” Ian begins. “Let’s go in your room.” 

He can see Mickey breathe a little harder. “You sure?” 

Ian nods fast. “Yeah,” he says, "I’m absolutely sure.” 

When they close the door, Ian begins to peel his shirt off, but Mickey’s hands stop him. “Let me do it,” he says lowly. “Let’s take it slow.” He eases Ian back on the bed. Ian watches Mickey take his shirt off slowly as he walks closer. “Move up more,” Mickey says. 

Ian scoots up on the bed, his head meeting the pillow. He’s shaking. He knows Mickey can tell. When Mickey slides on top of him, Ian opens his legs so he can fit between them. It’s certainly not the first time that Mickey’s been in this position. But this is different. More intense. Stronger. The anticipation makes his body hum. 

Ian’s hands slide against Mickey’s bare back as they kiss. His fingertips glide everywhere, pulling at his shoulders as Mickey’s mouth finds his neck again, lips moving past the mark before and making a new one, a little lower, a little deeper. 

“Breathe,” Mickey says, and Ian realizes he’s been holding it. “You doin’ okay?” 

Ian nods, legs opening wider. “Yeah,” he says. “You?” 

Mickey nods quickly. “Let’s get your shirt off.” Ian is about the pull at it again, but Mickey drags his hands down to meet the mattress. “I’ve got you,” he says quietly, and he bends, hand gliding beneath the shirt, sliding up against Ian’s nipple.

“Oh fuck,” Ian whispers. 

“You okay?” Mickey asks again, hand paused inside his shirt. 

Ian nods. “Yeah, go ahead. It’s just–” he says. He searches for the word as he raises his neck so Mickey can ease his shirt off. “It feels really different.” He swallows. “Really good different.” 

Mickey lowers himself against Ian again, and they groan into the kiss when their chests touch. Ian feels his thigh come up to rest against Mickey’s hip. Mickey’s hand races down his leg, and Ian breaks away to breathe. 

“I want more,” Ian says. “I know you said to take it slow, and we still can, but–”

“Turn over,” Mickey says lowly, backing off Ian, but not lifting the hand on his leg. 

Ian turns over eagerly. His back feels sensitive, alive. He gasps when he feels Mickey straddling his thighs, leaning down, sliding his hands all along Ian’s body, both hands finding Ian’s, bending lower as he covers him. Ian whines against the pillow. Mickey’s mouth finds one shoulder, then the other. His hands clench just a little tighter as he nudges Ian’s head to the side, licking against his neck. “I wanna be inside you,” Mickey whispers, breath shaky. “Please.” 

Ian has never moaned deeper than this. He’s so sure of it. “Take my pants off,” he breathes into the air. “Oh fuck, Mick. Get em off.” The words surprise him at first, but he feels like he’s been saying them all along. 

Mickey kisses down his spine, and Ian cries out as Mickey pulls him onto all fours. Mickey presses firmly against his cock. He reaches for Ian’s belt and fumbles with the buckle. Ian’s hand pulls off the bed, but Mickey whispers “I’ve got it, just let me do it.” He manages the buckle, and pulls his pants down quickly, just a bit, just to his knees. Boxers too. Ian feels his cock bouncing out, and his ass against the air. He groans. 

“Lay on your stomach,” Mickey says. Ian hesitates. It feels too good like this. “It’s just to get your pants off,” he says, and he pulls them all the way off when Ian complies. There is another rustle, and when Mickey comes back to cover his body, Ian feels his bare cock against his ass. 

“Oh fuck,” Ian chokes out. “Oh fuck.” 

“Shhh,” Mickey says. His voice is soothing in his ear. “We don’t have to rush.” He shifts back again, his lips returning to the center of his back, kissing lower and lower. His fingertips slide against his ass, and Ian finds himself parting his legs, just a little. Mickey hums. “Can I touch you?” 

“Um,” Ian says, and he finds his breath is slowing down, calming. He opens his legs a little wider. “Sure.” He can feel Mickey’s hand tracing circles on one cheek. 

“Do you wanna turn over yet?” 

Ian shakes his head into the pillow. “No, I like this.” 

Mickey makes a little sound. His hand doesn’t stop moving in circles, it just creeps a little lower, fingertips reaching out just a little more. “Can you open up more for me?” His voice is ragged. Ian parts his legs more, and when one of Mickey’s hands find his knee, pushing up just a little more, Ian moans. 

Mickey’s finger traces up and down the cleft of his ass, narrowly missing Ian’s opening with every turn. Ian feels himself gasp the closer and closer he gets. He feels an odd, open feeling, and he feels himself pressing into the mattress, rocking, raising his hips slightly, trying to press back into Mickey’s hand. “Oh fuck,” he says, finally. “Oh fuck, I really want you to touch me.” Mickey hums. He drops one finger lower and glides it against him. Ian’s eyes fly open and he presses back. “Fuck,” he whines. “God, get the lube, get the lube.” 

Mickey’s hand pulls away and pulls Ian onto his back by one hip. As soon as his back hits the mattress, Ian is reaching for him, pulling him flush against him, feet firmly planted. He kisses Mickey wildly. He’s mumbling words. He has no idea what they are or what they mean. He pulls and pulls at him. He feels that open feeling again, that feeling of opening, wanting. Through the haze, he realizes what it is.

He wants Mickey inside him. His body is telling him he wants Mickey inside him. The thought shoots through his clouded thoughts like a silver arrow. The thoughts of being entered, of holding Mickey inside, of connection and fullness. It’s a thought, and then it is an overwhelming need. Now he knows why Mickey wanted to go slow. So Ian could feel this, let him feel all this, teach him how to let it all happen. Not rushed. Not pressed. Just carefully nudging him up and up until his body took over, 

It’s his body, not his mind. It’s just him, and Mickey, and Mickey breathing so hard, hands sliding all over him as he lies there and breathes. 

“Mickey,” Ian says. “Get the lube. I want you to–” He stops short. The words _fuck me_ aren’t right. Not here. Not now. Not like this, what they are. “I want to.”

Mickey nods and kisses him quickly. He backs up to reach for the lube. The moment breaks, just slightly, and Ian opens and closes his mouth. “I tried to–” Ian begins. “I was in the shower earlier, but I don’t know how much, like, I–”

Mickey shakes his head. “You’re fine,” he says, slicking his fingers. “Don’t even think about it.” He bends to kiss him again, and Ian feels himself relaxing. Mickey’s finger drops and begins to circle him, and although Ian’s brain isn’t as foggy as before, he doesn’t feel scared. A little nervous, maybe, but he doesn’t want to stop. He breathes deeply. 

Mickey’s finger circles him just a little harder, and begins to press closer. “You okay?” Ian nods. “You ever done this stuff?” 

Ian thinks about it. Maybe a few times, but nothing special. “Kind of,” he says quietly. “Not really.” 

Mickey bends to kiss him. “Just relax as much as you can,” he says. “We’ll go slow. I won’t push you. If you wanna stop, just say so.” 

Ian shakes his head. “I don’t wanna stop. I want this.” 

“But if you do–”

Ian reaches up, holds Mickey’s face in his hands. “I know,” he says. “I know I wanna do this. I want you. Just you.” 

Mickey nods. “I want just you, too.” 

The mood shifts, just a little, and Ian thinks of Mandy’s words outside. Thinks of Mickey’s words. _Course we are._

Ian nods. “I’m ready.” 

Mickey’s lips find his again, and his finger begins to push inside him. There’s a little twinge in Ian, just a little, and Mickey breaks apart to say “It’s okay, just relax. You’ll know in a minute.” 

Ian wants to say _know what?_ but he closes his eyes and waits. He breathes deeply, and soon he hears himself sighing, wetting his dry lips.

Mickey’s hand slides back, and he returns with two fingers. Ian gasps a little, and it’s more intense than before. “We’ll just keep doin’ this for a while,” Mickey says. “Like you tellin’ me we don’t gotta rush, remember?” He smiles a little, and Ian breathes through a smile. It seems like another life, out there. He nods. 

Ian closes his eyes. He tries to think about what he sees when he’s prepping Mickey. At first it just makes things feel weirder, but the more he thinks of it, thinks of the way Mickey breathes and relaxes under his fingers, the more confident he becomes. His breathing deepens. His legs open wider. He feels himself rock against Mickey’s fingers, just a little. 

“That’s it,” Mickey breathes. “There you go.” Mickey’s fingers move gently inside him, and Ian finds Mickey’s forearm and holds on tight. Mickey licks his lips. 

Ian searches for Mickey’s eyes as his jaw drops. Fuck. It’s starting to feel good. Still sort of weird, but good weird. It pulls, but there’s something else there that eases it. Mickey is being so careful. God, he feels so safe like this, under Mickey’s fingers. He pulls them back, and Ian can feel more lube. He knows what is coming next. Mickey adds a third, slowly, that last triangle. They search and press, and there is the slightest brush against his prostate. “Mickey,’ he breathes. 

“Yeah?” 

Ian shakes his head. “I just, I think–” he searches his eyes, breath heavy, feeling Mickey. His back bends. “I think I’m ready.” He swallows. “Do you–do you think I am?” 

Mickey’s head slips away and kisses his nipple. Ian groans. “I think so,” Mickey whispers. 

Ian’s eyes are wide as he watches Mickey sit back, put a condom on, lube himself up. He watches Mickey look down at him, eyes heavy. “You’re really hot” Ian says, surprising himself with his sudden clarity. 

There’s a little flush in Mickey’s cheeks. “Not bad yourself. Specially not like this.” They laugh, just a little, and Mickey hisses as he puts more lube on his cock. “I’m real worried I’m not gonna last long. Or I’m gonna hurt you.” 

Mickey begins to lower himself again, and Ian reaches for his face. “You aren’t gonna hurt me,” he says. “You won’t.” 

Mickey nods. “Everything good?”

Ian nods. Closes his eyes. Breathes out. Opens his eyes again. 

When Mickey begins to press in, it’s not what Ian expected. Mickey’s dick is on the thicker side, and he expected pain, but there isn’t, not really. There’s that pulling. A stretch, more than anything. It feels intense, but it isn’t pain. Ian feels the conflict in his body’s initial response. It seems to want either to push him out or draw him in, and he doesn’t know which is happening. His body is following his own pattern. It’s strange, and fascinating, and new. Ian is silent, every single particle of him focused on this one place. 

“Breathe,” Mickey whispers, thumb grazing his forehead. “Breathe out.” 

Ian nods, and he does. Oh, fuck. Mickey waits for Ian’s body to adjust. He breathes in and out. 

“Everything okay?” Mickey’s voice is breathy, and Ian knows he’s trying hard not to move. He feels that way himself, sometimes.

Ian nods. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, you can move.” 

Mickey begins to move, slowly, and Ian’s breath catches. 

“Fuck,” Ian whispers, and it’s a surprise, a new thread binding them together. It is all of that in one word, and Mickey’s eyes on his. 

Mickey slides back and presses in harder, and Ian’s eyes roll back. Fuck. Oh fuck. He feels his legs pulling up more, gripping onto Mickey tighter, and it changes the angle enough that Mickey is deeper. Ian cries out. 

“How you feelin’?” Mickey voice shakes out. 

Ian licks his lips. “So fucking full,” he says, barely catching his breath. “God, it feels really fucking good.” 

“Oh fuck,” Mickey groans. “You like it?” 

Ian groans and reaches for Mickey’s forearms again. He nods wildly. He tries to speak, but the words don’t come. 

“You feel fucking amazing,” Mickey says. “Holy shit.” 

Ian’s hand comes up to grab at Mickey’s hair, trying to pull him down. They meet in a deep kiss, Mickey’s thrusts deepen with a wider rock of his hips. Ian breaks away to gasp, a strange sound in his throat, a long sound that ends with a garbled “So good.” 

Because it is, and it’s new, and it’s different, and it’s Mickey. _Course we are._ His senses are completely overwhelmed with Mickey, and there’s no doubt now that his body wants to pull him in and in. It’s like his body wants to be marked, pulled apart, put back together starting with the place where they are connected. Ian’s voice is getting louder, and Mickey begins to thrust his hips faster, and Ian chants yes and yes and fuck yes. 

Mickey shoves Ian’s leg up higher, and as he begins to thrust deeper, Ian feels him press against his prostate. 

“Mick–” he moans. He closes his eyes and Mickey thrusts into that place harder. 

He thinks about when he's inside of Mickey, the way he looks when Ian has found it. He imagines he is doing the same face right about now. The more he thinks about it, the more he finds himself trying to shift away from it.

Mickey slows down and backs off. “What is it?” 

Ian shakes his head, eyes feeling wild. “You’re just, you know, right there. Haven’t really had that,” he pants, “touched, and I’m feeling–like it just feels like a lot, and I’m not sure what I’m supposed–”

“Shh,” Mickey says soothingly. “You don’t have to do anything. Let that all go. I wanna do this for you. It’s gonna feel good. I promise.” 

Ian feels like he’s going to cry. His hands wrap around Mickey’s shoulders. He nods his head yes, and Mickey presses back in harder. 

Now there are words. Now there is Ian crying out “Oh god,” and grabbing at everything he can reach. Mickey. The bed. It’s all sweat and breath and that feeling of complete fullness, letting Mickey in, all of him, welcoming him in again and again, and _fuck_ does this feel good. There’s that white heat behind his eyes as Mickey’s cock finds that place again and again. He feels stretched and open and absolutely Mickey’s, and the combination makes his head swim.

“Mickey,” Ian pants. “Oh god, I’m gonna come.” 

“Not yet,” Mickey says. “Just hold on. Just a little bit longer.” 

“Touch me.” 

Mickey cries out, thrusting faster. It’s so much. He’s pressed so hard against that place, and Ian feels tears in the corners of his eyes. “Oh god,” Ian moans again. “Oh fuck, need you to touch me.” 

And Mickey does. He does and Ian feels himself almost breaking apart. His heels dig into Mickey’s back and Mickey’s hand is still crammed between them and Ian has spilled everywhere. His senses are still on fire. It’s still so big, such a big emotion he doesn't even have a name for. Mickey’s hand pulls back, and Ian can still feel him hard inside him. He grabs Mickey’s face and brings him close. 

“Finish,” he breathes into his mouth. 

Mickey begins to move again, angling away from Ian’s prostate. “You sure?” 

Ian nods, kissing him deeply. Their mouths break apart and Mickey thrusts into him hard. So hard. Ian closes his eyes tight. Even this, he thinks, even this is good. Sharing himself with Mickey, making sure he is taken care of. When he comes, Ian pulls him closer again, feeling their breath and the tapping of teeth as the kiss overtakes them. 

Mickey slowly pulls out, and Ian goes “ouch.” Mickey whispers “Sorry, I know.” 

Every limb feels like it is made out of water. There is come on his stomach and part of his chest, but he feels like he doesn’t even care. He tries to slow his breathing. He groans. Mickey finishes messing with the condom and come back to lie beside him, taking Ian’s hand. His eyes feel watery. 

“Hey,” Mickey says quietly, raising up on an elbow. “Everything okay?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says, but his voice wavers. “Just never felt like that before.” 

Mickey bends to kiss him. “It okay?” 

Ian nods and nods. “Really okay. Just a big feeling.” 

“I know,” Mickey says quietly. “I know it is.” 

Ian sighs and covers his eyes with one hand. “I can’t believe that just happened.” He breathes out a chuckle. “That was really amazing. can't believe how good that was.” He smiles under his hand, and when he moves his hand away again, Mickey is smiling back at him. 

“I know,” Mickey says. “Me too.” 

Ian laughs. “You’re a natural, by the way.” 

MIckey laughs too, flopping onto his back again. “High praise from your ass.” 

“My ass literally.” 

“Heh heh.” Mickey says. “Okay, I’m gonna get up and get you somethin.” 

“Just hand me a couple tissues,” he says. “It’s fine for now. I just wanna lie here.” 

MIckey sits up to grab them and lies back down, scooting closer to him. Ian raises an arm and Mickey slides under him, resting his head on his chest. Their breathing matches up, begins to slow.

“How long do you feel, like open?” Ian says quietly. 

“It’s only been like five minutes,” Mickey says. “Give it a little time.” 

“I’m not, like complaining,” Ian says, because he’s not. It feels oddly good, if he’s honest. “Just wondering.” 

“Not that long. Not as much, anyway.” 

Ian closes his eyes. He tightens his arm around Mickey. “Can we fall asleep? I wanna fall asleep.” 

Mickey chuckles against his chest. “I guess,” he says. He reaches down with his foot and shuffles a sheet closer, reaching down to grab it and pull it over them. “You don’t gotta take your pills though? It’s about that time.” 

Ian sighs. “Fucking meds.” 

“Eh,” Mickey says. “Just grab em and we can sleep. Or we can get in the shower.” 

Ian reaches up to the shelf behind Mickey’s bed. He shakes out the yellow oval and pops it in his mouth. He struggles for a second to get it down, but eventually does. He does the same with the little white one. 

“There’s water right fuckin’ there,” Mickey says, pointing at the nightstand. “You bein’ some kinda showoff?” 

Ian laughs. “Yeah. What better way to win you over? Is it working?” 

They both freeze a little. Ian’s laugh dies out quickly. It’s so close to what he really wants to say. 

“Yeah,” Mickey says finally. “Yeah, it’s workin’.” 

Ian grins and reaches for the sheet. “So how long?” 

“How long what?” 

“How long’s your bounceback? The same as usual?” 

Mickey laughs. “I don’t think it works the same for this. I’m fuckin’ beat.” 

“Bah,” Ian says. “Fine. Let’s shower then.” 

“Thought we was gonna sleep?” 

Ian pulls the sheet off Mickey in one big swoop and laughs when he complains. “C’mon. It’s gonna be nice. I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Mickey sits up. “Well, now you got me.” 

*

“Whoaaaaa. You got laid!” 

"Yeah, like yesterday," Ian says, but he’s too distracted by the sight in front of him. "How come you're so dirty?"

Sully’s shoulders are covered with whatever he was working on. It sticks to his sweat. "From work."

Ian rolls his eyes. “Come on,” he says, and heads to the bathroom for a towel. 

"Dude, but I'm serious here,” Sully says, following him, crowding Ian into the bathroom, taking the towel and soaking it under the tap. He swipes at his shoulders. “You got like _laid_ laid. Like, extra. I can tell.”

“Fuck off, alright?” Ian laughs. “Here,” he says, tugging at Sully’s tank. “Just take your shirt off.” 

“Oooh yessss,” Sully says, punching the air. “He’s gonna show me what the magic’s all about!” 

“Not in my bathroom I’m not.” Ian gives him a shove. “You gotta hose yourself off in here. What’s all that? Drywall?” 

“Floor sander.” 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” He stands in the doorway. “Don’t bring that shit into my house!” He’s laughing, eyes wide. 

“Fine, then, get me clothes.” 

“Pushy, pushy. Why didn’t you just go home first?” 

Sully shrugs and pulls his shirt off. “I don’t know.” He unzips his jeans and starts to shake them off. “I guess I just didn’t feel like it.” He leans over to turn the shower on. He gestures to his boxers. “Final act is coming up. You staying?” 

Ian rolls his eyes and shuts the door. 

He picks up the paper bag Sully brought over and left in the hall space. There’s beer inside, a bottle of blue gatorade, a bottle of orange gatorade, and a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos. Ian chuckles and unpacks the bag. 

He’s about to open the orange gatorade when he hears a knock at the door. He pauses. Mickey is working, Sully is in the shower, Lip and Amanda are visiting her parents in Miami. 

He opens the door and is surprised to see Mickey standing there. “I thought you were working?” 

Mickey holds onto Ian’s belt and guides him inside. “Got done early. Wanted to see if you wanted to,” he leans forward to kiss him quickly. “Hang out with me for a while.” 

Ian smiles and reaches for him again. He pulls him to his lips and kisses him deeper. His arm is just about to curl around him when MIckey puts his hand on his chest and breaks away. His eyes are hard. 

“Who the fuck is that?” 

Ian frowns. “Who the fuck is who?” 

The shower turns off. Mickey points and the bathroom door and steps back. “Who the fuck is _that._ ” 

“Oh, it’s not a big deal, it’s just–” 

“Don’t fucking lie to me.” 

Ian steps back. “I’m not,” he says. “Mickey, it’s just Sully. He just came over to play cards.” 

“Aint the night for that,” Mickey says. “Who is it?” 

Ian sighs. “You don’t believe me?” 

Mickey crosses his arms. 

“Hey,” Ian calls out, eyes not leaving Mickey’s face. “You doin’ okay in there?” 

“Why, you wanna come check?”

Ian groans. “Perfect,” he says. “That’s just perfect.” 

“Yo,” Mickey yells out. “Get the fuck out here.” 

The door opens, and Sully steps out, wearing boxers and rubbing a towel against his hair. “Hey! What’s up? You gonna play?” 

Mickey looks from Sully to Ian and back again. “What's going on?"

“Mickey, come on.” 

Sully walks closer, face showing that he understands. “Oh, woah. No way,” he says to Mickey. “No way, man. He’s all yours. He’s obviously crazy about me, but not like that. We keep it strictly cards-only.” 

“Crazy, huh?” Mickey says, stepping closer. “What do you mean by ‘crazy’? You call him crazy?” 

Ian covers his face with his hands. “Oh, Jesus Christ, you guys.” 

“Should I like, go?” Sully says. “Or can we just get our shit straight and play?” 

Mickey’s tongue finds the inside of his cheek. 

“Come here,” Ian says to Mickey. He doesn’t budge. “Mickey,” he says again. “Come over here.” 

The bathroom is wet and steamy, and Sully left his dirty clothes and a filthy towel on the floor. Ian groans. “See this?” He points to the floor. He meets Mickey’s face. “He came to my house like this. He had crap from a _floor sander_ all over him. You know that gets everywhere. He decided it was better to bring me his mess instead of going home first like an actual adult.” 

Mickey smiles, just a little. “ _I_ bring shit like this into your house.” 

Ian smiles, shoulders beginning to fall, relieved. “You’re different though. I _want_ you to bring shit like this into my house.” 

“You aint runnin’ a fuckin’ bed and breakfast.” 

Ian laughs. “You’re the only one I make breakfast for. You know that.” 

Mickey pauses. “Am I?” His voice is reaching, a little uneven. 

“Of course you are,” Ian sighs. “That's what you meant, right? When we were outside with Mandy? There’s no one…” He lets it hang there. No one _like you. Like us._ “Else? It’s just you. You and me.” 

Mickey steps closer. “I’m,” he shrugs. “Fuckin’ hothead.” 

“I know,” Ian says, wrapping his arms around him. 

“Can’t think about anyone else fuckin’ touching you.” 

Ian sighs into his hair. There’s that flip in his stomach, part of him falling and drifting. 

"You don't have to be jealous," Ian says. "It's just you."

"Okay," Mickey says. "Yeah, okay."

They hold each other for a minute. “You wanna play with us?” 

Mickey breaks away. “Depends. What you playin’?” 

Ian shrugs. “We play a lot of stuff. Come on.” 

“I have to apologize, don’t I,” Mickey grumbles. 

Ian throws an arm around his neck as they leave the bathroom. “Yes,” he says. 

Mickey groans, smiling. “Goddamnit.”


	11. Floors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ian tries to help.

The floor sander dust Sully brought into his apartment that day is probably still in the tile somewhere. Ian can sometimes feel some on his foot, or feel like there was some hidden in the fibers of the towel he had to wash twice. It’s there in the floor. He wonders if it’ll ever come out. 

There’s going to be plenty of dust today. He hopes to god the bags don’t break like Sully’s did. Mickey will hit the roof if that happens. He reaches for his glasses and mask as he pulls up to Emerald. The doors are open, the windows too. He can hear the high whistle and thick sound of the sanders. 

He slips the gear on as he reaches the crumbled steps. He doesn’t want to track anything in or out, so he pauses in the doorway, staring at Mickey behind his glasses. He knows he will feel him, eventually. 

Mickey’s eyes find him. He gestures to the floor, the space behind the sander. The space beneath the old stain is light and smooth. It looks like pine, almost. Not as hard as oak, but still beautiful. He wonders why he didn’t notice before. He’s not always the best at recognizing the different types of wood. The closest he can tell is when the outside layer is stripped off. 

Mickey’s thumb goes up, then down. He’s asking what Ian thinks. Ian puts his thumb up. He steps back from the door and gestures with his head to the outside. He sees Mickey head toward the kitchen. He’ll use that door so he won’t have to cross off the newly sanded part. Ian heads to the side of the house. 

He’s already pulled his mask down by the time he sees Mickey. Mickey takes his sanding mask off and smiles. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hi,” Ian says. “How are things goin’?” 

“They’re goin’,” Mickey says. “You have an okay day over there?” 

Ian nods. “Just thought I’d come by. I have the van. Wondered if you needed any help.” 

Mickey turns toward the house. “Don’t think so,” he says. “It’s just the sanding guys. Don’t need more people goin’ in and out.” 

Ian nods, hesitating a little. “Just wondering,” he said. 

“Wait,” Mickey says. “You know I don’t mean it like that.” He takes a small step forward. “Like that you came by. Thought about me.” He shrugs, and he has the slightest blush or something. Maybe he’s just sweaty. Not breathing right inside that house. “Am I gonna see you later?” 

Ian shifts his feet. “I gotta go pick my meds up. I might go over to Fiona’s. She wants me to.” He drops his voice. “Believe me, I’d rather spend time with you. Alone.” 

Now Mickey _is_ blushing. He wishes he could tell Mickey how much he blushes. It gives him away. Gives Ian that thrill, that feeling of pride that he can see clearly the effect he has on him. He wonders what he gives away like that. Wonders what he does that shows his hand, shows how he really feels about Mickey. Probably something in his eyes. He can sometimes almost feel it. 

“What about later?” Mickey asks, smiling. “After?” 

“Sure,” Ian says. “Yeah, I can text you. But I might be tired. I make no, you know,” He raises an eyebrow. “Promises.” 

“Oh yeah, you got your long day over at Bowman tomorrow.” 

Ian nods. He dreads Thursdays. It’s a 10 hour shift. Sure, some of it is finishing any outstanding documentation, but by the time he heads home on the el, he’s so tired he can hardly keep his eyes open. 

“If I can’t come tonight, what about tomorrow? You gonna be too tired?” 

Ian smiles. “Too tired for what?” 

“Heh,” Mickey says. “Don’t matter if ya are,” he says, grinning. “I can take care of ya.” 

"Oh yeah? We gonna make that a habit?” 

“Nah,” Mickey says. He looks around and takes another small step forward. “I like the, you know, our regular way. But I got plenty I can do without gettin’ in ya.” 

Ian chuckles under his breath. “How am I supposed to say no to that?” 

“Easy,” Mickey says, crossing his arms. “You don’t say no.” 

Ian laughs and crosses his arms, too. They both know why they are doing it. Otherwise their arms will reach each other and then it’s all over. 

“I’ll let you get back,” Ian says, backing up a little. “Just wanted to see you.” 

Mickey grins again before clearing his throat. “Have fun at Fiona’s.” 

Ian groans. “I’ll try.” 

Mickey doesn’t say goodbye. He just grins and turns back toward the house. Ian watches him leave, and then turns around. As he reaches the front of the house, he sees McGinley checking out the plans and making notes. “Hey,” Ian says evenly. 

“Hi,” McGinley says. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” 

Ian shrugs “Came to check in with Mickey. See if he needed anything.” 

McGinley nods. “You guys okay?” 

Ian squints. “What?” 

“Are you okay? The work?” 

Ian nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, he said there’s nothing for me to do here today. Why? Do you need help with something?” 

McGinley looks down at the plans. “No, I’m good.” He taps at the kitchen. “Think we’re gonna start in on the tile soon. Jamal said you’ll be done before then?”

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Yeah, we’ll be working on that on Friday I think.” 

McGinley glances up at the house. “He seems distracted. Did he seem distracted to you?” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. “What are you talking about?” 

“You can relax,” McGinley says quietly. “I don’t care about it.” 

All of Ian’s joints feel like they are on fire. He wants to run. “Don’t care about what?” He says it as evenly as he can. 

McGinley hold his eyes. “The two of you.” 

Ian can’t speak. There are no words in his mouth. 

McGinley takes a step closer. “Were you together when all of that happened with Danny?” 

Ian shifts his feet. He looks up at the house. He can hear the floor sanders. There’s something that flips in his stomach, but it’s almost something happy. Relaxed. Glad he doesn’t have to hide, pretend, deny. 

“Yeah,” Ian says, quietly. “Yeah, we were.” 

McGinley sighs and puts his paper and pencil down. “Shit,” he says. “I’m real sorry, man. If I woulda known I wouldn’ta–” 

“It’s fine,” Ian says quickly. “It’s okay.” He ignores the sight of McGinley shaking his head, opening his mouth. “Just...just forget about it.” 

McGinley nods. “I’m sorry.” 

Ian looks up at the house again. “Look,” he says. “Look, you can’t say anything to him. You said this to me, that’s fine. But he can’t handle this stuff.” 

“Will you at least tell him I know I was bein’ an asshole?” 

Ian shakes his head. “He’s–” he swallows. His throat is dry. “He’s not, you know, open about this stuff. No one is supposed to know.” 

McGinley nods. “Didn’t think so.” He picks up his pencil again and draws a small mark somewhere in the kitchen. “Anyway, I’m real sorry. And I don’t give a shit. I’m not like that.” 

“Okay,” Ian says. “Okay, thanks.” He watches Mickey walk around the side again. He pauses when he sees Ian standing with McGinley. “Don’t say anything,” he says to McGinley. “If he even thinks you know something, he’ll probably–”

“What’re you still doin’ here?” Mickey calls out as he drops his mask. He still smiles, just a little. 

Ian swallows hard again. “I’m goin’,” he says. “Just checking in about the kitchen.” 

Mickey nods, but something slips in his face. His eyes dart back and forth. Ian knows, then, that it is his eyes, after all. They don’t lie to him. _Play what cool?_ Ian drops his eyes and shifts his feet. _The things people play cool, Ian. Jesus._

“Sorry Milkovich,” McGinley calls out. “I’ll be right there.” 

Ian raises his head, and Mickey’s eyes press firmly on his. Mickey’s jaw shifts. “Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, good.” 

He turns and walks around the side of the house again, and Ian lets out a breath. He gives McGinley a nod and fishes his keys out of his pocket. His hands are shaking. He isn’t angry that McGinley figured it out. It doesn’t bother him. In fact, it’s a relief. 

He opens the van door and slides in. He doesn’t start the engine. Not yet. He absentmindedly scratches at his neck, and only stops when he feels it burning. He hears his phone vibrate on the passenger’s seat. 

_What the fuck was that about_

He breathes in and out. He grips the steering wheel, telling his body to stay still. He presses in harder and harder until his knuckles ache. 

He lets go. _It’s okay._

There’s a pause. 

_Go over to the bowling alley. I’ll meet you there in 20._

Fight or flight. Flight. _Mickey, nothing happened._

_Bullshit._

Ian starts the van and drives away, turning right and driving down the few blocks, pulling into the parking lot of the old bowling alley. Boarded windows and doors. Graffiti and No Trespassing signs. Wrappers and garbage all over the parking lot. He thinks about that memory, the memory Lip doesn’t share, apparently. Monica back at the house, smiles and hugs and wave after wave of love and praise. Ian remembers being old enough to know better, know it wouldn’t last, but he wanted it to last. He was 10, maybe. She kept telling him how smart he was, how beautiful. He remembers Fiona refusing to talk to her. He remembers Frank yelling at Fiona for that, and he remembers Lip telling him not to listen to anything Monica said. Not to listen to the promises, the plans. He remembers the way he looked at her. Hatred. Pain. 

But Lip doesn’t remember this day–the day Ian is thinking about now. The day at this place. The lanes were crooked, but Monica knew the best one. She could pick the right size balls, too. Carl was so little someone had to hold his hand by the lanes so he wouldn’t slip. Ian helped him roll the balls down. Debs was tall enough to reach the popcorn machine, so she got little paper boats for everyone. Ian remembers the salt in his mouth, being so thirsty he stuck his head under the faucet in the bathroom, taking big, messy gulps. 

Even Frank was happy. Monica flirted with the bartender, and when she kissed her, Frank swiped the beers waiting for the server at the end of the bar. Ian got a strike, and Monica ran and picked him up. He knew he was too old to be picked up by her, but he let her. He couldn’t remember the last time she had. 

Ian puts his head back on the headrest. He stares at the front door of the building. He can almost smell the cigarettes in the air, the beer on Frank’s breath. It’s a smell that’s been around him his whole life, but looking at this building somehow makes it feel singular, a sensory memory from only one day. 

He’s startled with Mickey yanks open the passenger door, breathing hard from what has to have been a sprint. He’s barely slammed the door before he says “What the fuck was that?” 

Ian shakes his head. “Mick, it’s not a big deal. He–” 

“I think I’ll be the judge if it’s a big deal or not. Tell me. Don’t lie.” 

Ian swallows. “He knows.” 

Mickey’s mouth opens. His closes his eyes. “How.” 

“I don’t know,” he says. “Figured it out.” 

“Fuuuuuck,” Mickey says, fingers against his eyes. “How.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” Ian says. “He said he was sorry he was an asshole. He doesn’t care.” 

“I bet he don’t care. By the time I get back he’s gonna have told all the guys.” 

Ian breathes out and holds the steering wheel again. “He won’t.” 

“How the fuck would you know that?” 

“He said he wouldn’t talk about it.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Like fuck he won’t.” 

Ian turns in his seat. “Look,” he says. “Not everyone cares about this stuff. I know that your dad–”

“You don’t know shit about my dad,” Mickey spits. “Don’t talk about that. You don’t get to talk about him.” 

Ian shakes his head, breathes deeply. “I mean,” he says. “I just mean that after that fight with Danny, I’m sure he told all the guys I’m gay.” 

“He said ‘fucking fag’, actually.” 

Ian rolls his eyes. “The point is, no one’s said anything.” 

“Not to your face.” 

Ian starts to reach his hand out, searching for Mickey’s knee. “Don’t,” Mickey says softly, brushing his hand away. 

“I don’t care,” Ian says. “It’s all posturing, anyway. I don’t need these guys to say I’m okay.” He finds Mickey’s eyes. “Mick, most people don’t give a shit.” 

“ _Most?_ Are you fucking kidding me?” 

“I mean,” Ian says. “You have to give people benefit of the doubt.” 

Mickey shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. 

“McGinley wants to apologize.” 

Mickey stares out the window. “I don’t want it.” 

“His apology?” 

“That too. Don’t want it.” 

Ian squints. “Wait. Don’t want what?” 

Mickey doesn’t turn. He doesn’t say anything. Ian tries to reach for him again, but he brushes him off. 

“Mickey,” he says. “Talk to me. Want what?” 

Mickey opens the door. Ian starts to panic. He opens his door and steps out. They meet at the front of Ian’s van. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t come around,” Mickey says. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The site. You shouldn’t come around.” 

“But what about the kitchen? I need to–” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Let Jamal do it.” 

Ian presses his hand against his forehead. “This is–I can’t do that. Kowalski and I have a deal.” 

“Then you stay the fuck away from me,” Mickey says. He starts walking away, but Ian catches up, grabs at his elbow, spins him around. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” He can hear himself raising his voice. 

Mickey steps closer. He pushes Ian back with a hand on his chest. “My problem is you keep trying to spread our business around. I’m not going to be in a fucking parade. You hear me? What we do is our fucking business. It’s not anyone else’s. No one gotta know.” 

Ian pushes Mickey back. “I’m not some fucking secret,” he says. “You can’t just fuck me and then–” 

“Shut up,” Mickey says quickly, looking around them. 

Ian shakes his head in disbelief. He gestures around the empty parking lot. “Are you serious?” He yells it. He can’t help it. He feels that fire in his belly. Fight. Fight. “What the fuck are we doing, then? What the fuck is this?” 

Mickey puts his hands on his hips. He looks around the parking lot. Ian can almost see Mickey’s nerves. “I can’t be like you are.” 

“Can’t be like what?” Ian can’t stop yelling. 

“Like just...out like that.” 

“Bull _shit_ you can’t. You just don’t want to.”

Mickey shakes his head. “That’s not it.” 

“No,” Ian shouts. “No, that’s exactly it. You don’t want to admit it. You _can_. You just don’t want to.” 

“Will you calm the fuck down? Stop yelling.” 

“Calm down?” Ian lowers his voice, but he can hear the anger shaking in his throat. 

“Yes,” Mickey says. “Calm down.” 

Ian huffs. “I don’t need to take this shit.” He starts walking to the van. “Don’t come over.” 

“Look,” Mickey says, and he grabs at Ian’s arm. “Don’t get like that. Don’t fucking pout about it. This doesn’t mean we can’t still–” 

“No,” Ian says. “Don't come over tonight. I need some space from this shit.” 

Mickey’s eyes are so blue. “Wait–” 

Ian shakes his head. “I’m not ashamed of who I am,” he says. “I’m not gonna hide how I feel about you. Mickey, I...I really care about you. I love–” He stops. Swallows. 

“No,” Mickey says quickly. “No, don’t say that.” 

“I–” 

“Don’t say it. I mean it.” Mickey looks around. Ian can see him breathing hard. 

“Shut up,” Ian says softly. “Shut up. Let me talk.” 

Mickey turns and starts heading for the sidewalk. “No.” 

There are so many things he could do. He could chase after him. He could spin him around, tell him the truth. Tell him, kiss him. Maybe Mickey would let him, after all. He’s scared. He’s in the closet and he’s scared, and no matter what he says, Ian knows the truth. Knows how he feels. How Mickey feels. Knows Mickey. 

Mickey looks over his shoulder as he begins to head down the block. He slows down, just a little. Mickey wants him to follow, call his bluff. Ian’s feet are stuck to the pavement in this parking lot, rooted. His mouth is dry, and he remembers how much it hurt after eating all that salty popcorn, how he stuck his head under the faucet in the bathroom, how his tongue responded to the cold, soothed. Mickey keeps walking. He doesn’t look back. He rounds the corner, and is out of sight. 

*

The good thing about the kind of job Ian has is that it can get him out of things. It’s tiring. It’s a lot. He can lie on the phone to Fiona. It doesn’t take much. He lays facedown on his bed. He breathes deeply. He’s on the pillow Mickey uses, and the smell of Mickey’s hair and face and head is all over it. 

He feels like such a fucking idiot. He wrote as much in his notebook. Mood chart. He went from even to angry to now, and now is sad or deflated or something. He remembers being in the hospital, seeing that lineup of cartoon faces in a row. _How would you rate your mood?_ There was one face he liked. One with an even line for a mouth. It was how he felt now. Nothing. Tired. Confused. Wrung out. 

He hears his phone buzz and he pulls himself off the pillow, alert. He grabs at it eagerly. He deflates again as he reads it. It’s Lip, asking how he’s doing. He writes back _fine_ , and he’s not surprised when Lip doesn’t write back. 

He wanted to tell Mickey he loves him. It wasn’t until he was driving away from the bowling alley that the weight of that fully hit him. He feels angry he couldn’t say it, but he’s also bewildered and confused by how quickly he almost said it. There’s only been one other time. With that guy whose name he can’t say. 

But this–this love, if it is–feels different. Adult. But how could it be? How could he love someone who won’t even touch him in public? He’s not asking for kissing, for any of that. Not even holding his hand, strolling along. Just a brush here and there. Someone sitting beside him, easy laugh. He wants someone to feel proud of him. Feel proud to love him, be with him, however Mickey would say it. He wants to say things like _my boyfriend Mickey_. He wants to...he doesn’t even know the entirety of what he wants. But he knows he doesn’t want to be a secret.

Because it’s not even as small as being a secret, something private. It doesn’t matter how Mickey tries to spin it. Ian, in his darkest moments, still feels like he’s something to be ashamed of. 

He knew what he was getting into. He tells himself that, reminds himself. This is who Mickey has been, from the start. Closeted. And Ian knew it. And he still wanted him. He shoved himself into the closet with Mickey, sliding his body right next to his. Small space, hidden somewhere in moth-bitten wool coats and broken umbrellas. He just wanted to be next to him. Hands and mouths and letting him in. When they touch, it’s magnetic and effortless. There is no one who has kissed him the way that Mickey does. Mickey kisses with his entire body. Ian feels himself being completely opened and unraveling beneath his lips, left swaying and gasping. Discovering Mickey, and being discovered by Mickey, every time. 

He feels tears welling in his eyes. He wonders what will happen. He wants Mickey to come over. He wants to explain. He wants to say he’s sorry. He wants Mickey on top of him. Forgiving him. Touching him. He wants Mickey’s apology. He would forgive him, too. And there wouldn’t be any other words, then. Just skin and breath and whispered words, the language they can speak without feeling awkward or wrong. There is so much said there, so much that isn’t difficult to understand. He breathes deeply, and feels a sob rise up from his toes. 

This pillow is wet. His mouth feels gummy against the pillowcase. His stomach churns, and he realizes he hasn’t eaten since this morning. He realizes he didn’t take his meds in the afternoon. Shit. He pulls himself off the pillow. He has a headache. He stands up, shaky, exhausted. In the kitchen, he takes his meds and pulls out the nighttime ones. He sets them on the counter and searches through the fridge. He closes it. His stomach churns. He grabs a piece of bread, and the minute he puts it in his mouth, he wants to spit it out. He fights it, swallowing. 

He picks the pills up and brings them to his nightstand. He lays down again. This time he lays on his back. His head is still on Mickey’s pillow. He stares up at the spot on the ceiling. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply. 

His whole body jerks when he hears the phone buzz again. He blinks, confused. The room is dark except for the light above the kitchen sink. He rubs at his eyes. He must have fallen asleep. He turns the light on. 

His pills sits next to his phone. He eagerly unlocks it, hoping it’s Mickey. 

It isn’t. 

_Hey, I really need your help_

Ian takes a look at the clock. It’s past his bedtime. He stares at the pills on the table. _With what?_

_I’m working and Ben just showed up. Something’s wrong with him._

Ian sighs. _Wrong like what?_

There’s a pause. Ian looks at the clock again. He picks up one pill and swallows it. He eyes the other one, but keeps it where it is. It’s the nighttime anti-psychotic. The one that makes him tired. The one he doesn’t want to take when he’s out in public, just in case. 

_Wrong like maybe manic? Or just drugs? Maybe both? He won’t talk to me. He was gone when I woke up. Last night he didn’t want to go to bed. I don’t know if he did._

Ian shakes his head in disbelief. _Wait, are you back together?_

_Yes._

Ian drops the phone and rubs his hands over his face. He looks over at the clock again. It’s getting late. He can’t do this. 

_I’m sorry I’m dragging you into this. I just don’t know what else to do. Forget it. I’m sorry._

Ian begins to type, but erases it. He looks at his pill again. _I can’t be there very long_ he types. _I really need to go back to bed._

_Thank you so much. Oh my god. Thanks._

Ian shakes his head, gritting his teeth. _Fine._

*

The bouncer must remember him. He glides by without a cover. He feels the heat as soon as he rounds the corner. 

He lets his eyes adjust to the lights. He can feel the thunk-thunk-thunk of the music in his chest. His eyes find Tom at the bar. He’s slammed. There’s no way he can even get near the bar. His eyes scan the crowd until he thinks he might see Ben. 

Ian pushes past the sweaty bodies on the dance floor. The club is filling up already. Wednesdays were always busy. Hump Day. So fucking creative. 2 for 1s. $2 off top shelf. He always made sure he worked until close. He made more on Wednesdays than all the other days combined. Soon it will be late enough that shirts will start coming off, late enough that the bathrooms start smelling like sex, late enough that guys will start snorting cocaine and sniffing poppers in the middle of the dance floor instead of the dark corners.

The music thunks hard in his chest, and something strange happens. He listens closer to the song when he feels his head begin to move. He remembers it. He remembers how much he loved it. How good it felt to dance to it. It comes back as fast and bright as the purple and blue lights sweeping across the floor. He feels his shoulders sway, just a little bit. _Off off off with your head._ Thunk thunk thunk thunk. Distorted keyboard. Thunk thunk thunk thunk. _Off off off with your head._

He shouldn’t inhale as deep as he does. None of these bodies smell as good as Mickey does. That’s for damn sure. Still, there’s a deep smell that Ian hasn’t smelled in a while. The smell of men, expectation, hope. He feels eyes dragging over him as he moves through the swaying bodies, the drift of a hand. _Off off off with your head_ the woman sings over and over. 

It takes a minute to find him. He’s dancing against a blonde with thick muscles and a tank top. The blonde shouts something in Ben’s ear and Ben laughs. The blonde pushes his hand into his pocket and brings out what Ian thinks is a pill. Ben takes it and Ian can’t get there fast enough. He can’t get there in time. By the time he has almost reached them, Ben has washed it down with whatever is in the blonde’s glass. _Dance dance dance til you’re dead_

As soon as he’s within reach, Ian’s hand grabs and pulls at Ben arm. The blonde tries to pull Ben away, but Ian pushes through, glaring at him until he walks away. Ben’s eyes are closed and he’s grinning. Ian grabs onto both of his arms. “Ben,” he shout-says loudly. 

Ben’s eyes open wide. He grins from ear to ear. He reaches out to grab Ian by the hips. At first he tries to pull away, but when he feels Ben’s hands tighten he just steps back a little instead. He’ll allow it. Just a little. Just enough to talk to him. “Hey you,” Ben says, smiling. “Decided to stop being fucking boring for once?” 

Ian pulls away. “Hey, Tom’s worried about you.” 

Ben laughs and reaches for Ian again. “If you’re gonna yell at me, at least dance and yell at me.” 

Ian rolls his eyes as he pushes him off, but the smile on Ben’s face says that he’s already seen Ian dancing. Ian knows he’s been swaying, counting the beats in his chest. He begins to sway wider, but he leans back as far as he can from Ben. 

_Dance dance dance til you’re dead._ “What’d you take?” The tech flashes more light on the mirror ball and the sight before him swims. “Ben, what’d you take?” 

He shrugs. “Some stuff.” His dark hair is wet around the edges, and his hands try for Ian’s waist, this time. “Why? My old man tell on me?” He laughs at his own joke, eyes wide and open. “Or did you just change your mind?” He sweeps his eyes down Ian’s body. Holds him tighter. 

“No I didn’t change my mind,” Ian snaps. “I have a fucking boyfriend.” 

“Me too,” he says, smiling. “So?” 

Ian pushes him away. “I’m trying to help you. Stop it.” 

_Off off off_ the woman sings. 

Still, Ian sways. He makes himself stop, and before he knows it he’s moving again. It’s muscle memory, he thinks. That’s all. 

“I don’t get it,” Ben shouts, swaying to the beat. “All he does is say he wants me to come to the club when he’s working, but then when I try and have fun all he does is yell at me. Why does he even want me to come?” 

“He’s probably worried about you,” Ian shouts into his ear. “Have you been doing okay?” 

Ben stares at him, and Ian stops moving. They stand there, still, being bumped by bodies around them. “Why the fuck are you really here?” Ben spits. “You think I’m losing it too?” 

Ian shrugs. “Look,” he says. “I don’t know why I’m here. I couldn’t even talk to Tom. I just think he might want you to slow down on the drugs or something.” 

_Heads will roll on the floor._ “Give me a goddamn break. Like he doesn’t take shit,” Ben shouts. “We just fucked on ecstasy the other night.” 

Ian doesn’t know what to say to that. All of a sudden all he wants to do is run as fast as he can. The song slows, is almost silent, and suddenly comes roaring back. The lights swing around, and he can hardly focus. “Look,” he says. “Maybe we should just go talk outside or something.” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Ben says, rolling his eyes. “I thought you were supposed to be smarter than this.” 

Ian squints, and he feels himself moving again. “Smarter than what?” 

Ben reaches a hand out to touch Ian’s face, sliding closer. Ian jerks his head away, his hands coming up to hold Ben back. He expects him to back away, but he doesn’t. He just laughs. 

Ian tries again. “Smarter than what?” 

“Smarter than all these people. I thought you were different.” 

Ian sighs. He remembers feeling like he was sparkling, here. With this song, with his body, every inch of him hot and special and alive. He remembers all the eyes, the hands. Not the way he thinks about them now. Not the way his mind has had to comfort itself, forgive and try and forget, trying to heal all the busted up cracked places. He remembers the feeling thumping in his chest, like this song that won’t stop. Was this song always this long? Is this an extended remix of an extended fucking remix? Why won’t she stop singing? 

“I _am_ different,” Ian says. “That’s why Tom called me.” 

Ben laughs. “What, because you’re crazy too?” He looks around and smiles at some guy nearby. “This isn’t about me being crazy, asshole. He’s just mad about the drugs and me flirting with other guys. This is how he fucking met me. He should know who I am. He says he loves me, but all I hear is how much he wants me to be fucking boring with him.” He rolls his eyes. _Heads will roll. Heads will roll._

“Look,” Ian shouts. Someone bumps into him, sliding against him. He shoves them off. “Look. If you’re kinda hypomanic that’s okay. It’s just–you shouldn’t be doing drugs like this. Trust me, it just makes it worse.” 

Ben laughs again. “Wait. So you can't handle doing drugs anymore, and now that makes you some expert? Not everybody's like that. This doesn't have anything to do with the other stuff. I've got it. It's fine."

His anger surprises him. It’s two hours past his bedtime. The bedtime he has had to hold to. He doesn’t press past it very long with Mickey, even. He needs to take his fucking pill. The pill that waits for him on the nightstand on Mickey’s side of the bed. “You know what?” Ian shouts, loud enough that a couple guys around them turn. “Fuck you. You have someone who fucking cares about you. He wants to make sure you’re doing okay.”

“Look,” Ben snarls. “I’m taking my meds. I’m doing everything he says. It’s a fucking gay club. Of course there’s gonna be drugs around. If he wants me to come here when he’s working, he should know what’s gonna fucking happen. He’s not my fucking dad.” 

This fucking song. They need to turn it off. Ian feels something in his chest pull. His body wants to move, to sway, and it makes him angry. “You’re lucky somebody gives a shit about you,” he shouts. “He’s a great guy. Why are you trying to fuck this up?” 

Ben pushes at Ian’s chest. “If you like him so much, why don’t _you_ fuck him? You know that’s what he’s best at.” 

Ian pushes Ben back. Hard. “You wanna be like this? Fine. Your meds aren’t right. You need to go to the fucking doctor.” 

“This isn’t about meds! This isn’t being manic or whatever. It’s just–” 

“Maybe not,” Ian says. It’s true, in its way. Maybe this is his version of drugged-out-stable, who knows. “But this isn’t right. You’re not okay. And I think you know it.” 

The song stops. Thank fucking Christ. It melts into the next song, a song Ian doesn’t recognize. “Come on,” he says, pulling at Ben’s arm. “Let’s go outside for a little bit. Clear your head.” 

Ben pulls his arm away. “No,” he says. He raises his hand high above the crowd and extends his middle finger somewhere in the vicinity of the bar. “Both of you guys need to calm down. I can’t believe he called you.” 

“He cares about you. He’s worried.” 

“Just leave me alone,” he says. “Let me deal with him. I need a drink anyway.” 

Ian follows him through the crowd. He tries to catch Tom’s eye as they get closer, but he doesn’t see them. 

Ian reaches the bar just in time to hear Ben shout at Tom. “Hey! Why the fuck did you call him?” 

Tom fumbles with the bottle in his hand. He shakes his head as he pours, looking down, grabbing a beer at the same time, presenting both of them to a guy at the bar. “I can’t talk right now,” Tom shouts over. 

“What the fuck?” Ben shouts. 

Ian holds Ben’s elbow. “Just chill. Sit down.” He doesn’t expect him to sit, but he actually does. Ian glances around the club. The floor is sticky under his feet. Spilled drinks around the bar. 2 for 1 mess. All he can see are sweaty bodies, hands grabbing. He sees guys on the go-go boxes and his stomach tightens. Suddenly it feels like things are starting to creep into him, the walls beginning to press against him. Off off off with your head. He breathes fast. Fuck. He has to get out of here. 

“What’s wrong now?” Ben grouches. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Past your bedtime, Grandpa?” 

Dance dance dance til you’re dead. “You know what? It is,” Ian says. He pushes away from the bar and finds Tom, pushing through the guys crowded there. 

“Tom,” he shouts. “Tom, I have to go. This is fucked up. I got him to the end of the bar for you, but I gotta go.”

“Wait–” Tom says, but Ian cuts him off. 

“No,” he says, and he doesn’t wait to see what else should be said. The walls close in and in, and the lights make the floor swim. 

By the time he has reached the outside, past the bouncer, past the people waiting, he is gasping for air. 

* 

He knew he’d be groggy, but this day has shown him that he has drastically underestimated the meaning of the word. He’s glad he is almost able to fix things in his sleep, because that’s exactly what he feels he is doing. 

He is beyond relieved when he turns in the last of his work orders and drops the van keys at Hayley’s desk. The walk to the el is the sweetest walk he’s ever had. He closes his eyes on the train and almost misses his stop. His phone buzzes and startles him back into his body.

 _Can I come over?_

Ian smiles. He’s been thinking about Mickey all day. He’s nervous, though. He feels it in his legs. They haven’t talked or texted since that showdown in the parking lot. It feels like weeks ago, especially after the bullshit Ian had to put up with last night. 

_Headed home now._

_Meet you there._

*

Mickey shows up with beer, and chews at his lip when Ian lets him inside. “Hey.” 

“Hey,” Ian says. 

They both start talking at once. 

“Go ahead,” Ian says. 

“Fine. Sorry I got weird.” It’s all he says, but it’s enough. 

“Okay.” 

“We okay then?”

Ian hesitates. There’s so much he wants to say. He takes a deep breath. “Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah, we’re okay.” 

Mickey twists the bottle cap off as they move into the kitchen. “So McGinley, like, said sorry or whatever.” 

Ian freezes. “What?”

Mickey shrugs one shoulder. “When I got back. Walked up to him. I was gonna say somethin’ smartass but he said he was sorry.”

“Wow,” Ian breathes. 

He takes a long drink, then nods. “It was okay.” 

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” 

Mickey nods, looking at the floor. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, whatever.” He looks up again, and he gives Ian a half-smile. 

“That’s good,” he says, smiling. Amazed at how calm Mickey looks. 

Mickey nods. “So,” he says. “Sorry I didn’t, you know, listen.” The words are loaded. Ian’s eyes widen. Does he mean what he thinks he means? 

Ian nods. It doesn’t feel right to say it, now. Not like this. He’ll have to wait. “You hungry?” 

“Sure.” 

“Go sit down,” Ian says, smiling. “I’ll get something.” 

They are quiet as Ian searches through the cabinets. He pulls out some spaghetti and a jar of sauce. He can’t stop smiling. McGinley talked to Mickey. Mickey acknowleged that Ian exists. That they exist. It was only one person, but it’s huge. He sighs contentedly as he fills a pot with water and sets it on the stovetop.

Finally, Mickey breaks the silence. “So what’d you end up doin’? You go to Fiona’s?” 

“Um,” Ian says, not turning around. “Nah, I was too tired.” He doesn’t know what to say. “Fell asleep.” It isn’t quite a lie. He did fall asleep. He just doesn’t say what happened next. 

“Cause you seem like you didn’t really sleep. Look pretty tired. Thought you might have been up late.” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. “I woke up, actually. Took meds late.” 

“Huh."

"What?" 

He turns around and sees Mickey crossing his arms. His face is expressionless. He stares down at the table.

“You okay?” Ian asks, setting another beer down in front of him. 

"That the truth? What you sayin?" Mickey’s teeth clench and unclench. "You were real mad at me. You do somethin'? You fuck someone?"

Ian gasps. He sinks into the other chair. "Are you serious?" He whispers it, reaching for Mickey's arm. "Of _course_ I didn't fuck anyone else. There's only you. You know that." It might be time, now. He swallows. "Mickey, I-"

Mickey pulls away from Ian's hand. He reaches for Ian's phone, lying on the table, just out of reach. Mickey pushes it over in front of him. “Read.” 

Ian's stomach drops out. When Ian touches it, the text box shows up. 

_Dumped his ass. Let’s dance again. Versatile, remember?_

Ian stares at the words in horror. Flight. He meets Mickey’s eyes, just barely. 

“Who the fuck is Ben?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry?
> 
> The song at the club is a remix of Yeah Yeah Yeah's 'Heads Will Roll'. [ Listen here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJEfd9YCX4c)


	12. Mosaic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Darkness is felt. Acceptance is offered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: thoughts/memories about self-injury

“Who the fuck is Ben?” 

Ian can barely breathe. He opens and closes his mouth. “Mickey,” he manages. “Look, this isn’t what you think. It’s not. He’s–” 

“He’s fucking who.” He clenches his teeth. He shifts his jaw. 

“Remember,” Ian begins. “Remember when I saw you at the club, and I was talking to that bartender? That’s Tom. I know him from when I worked there. Remember that guy I was sitting with? That guy is Tom’s boyfriend. Or was, I guess. That’s Ben. Tom wanted me to come out and talk with him. He’s bipolar, like me. He was–” 

“So what,” Mickey spits. "You guys gotta be best friends?"

"No! But Tom was worried about him. He should be, too. He's not okay. But I went by, you know, trying to help. Help both of them actually, and fuck, I see how you're looking at me, okay? Just calm down."

"Calm _down?_ "

"Yeah," Ian says. "Calm down. This isn't about cheating on you. This is just bipolar bullshit. It's-"

“You’re using that as an excuse now?” 

The soft, needy part of Ian hardens. “What? What do you mean by that?” 

“The bi-bipolar or whatever. You can’t talk to me? You think you gotta go to him to talk about it?” 

“I didn’t go to talk about me! I was only there to talk about him. Check to see if he was feelin’ ok. Which, I already said, he’s not.” 

“So what’s all this?” Mickey reaches over and takes the phone again, shaking it. “He acting like this _because_ he’s bipolar? This what it’s about? You fallin’ for this? You gonna run off to him? Because I didn’t think you having this was gonna be such a fucking problem.” 

The is no softness now. “Yeah? Is that what I am to you? A fucking problem? Because I thought you said this was okay. I told you from the beginning. If you have a problem with it you should have said. You didn't say fucking anything!"

Mickey huffs. “What am I supposed to do? You act like you don’t wanna talk about it. You never wanna talk about it. If I thought it meant you were going to go and–”

“So _what_ if I wanna talk with someone else about it? I already do!” Ian yells. “I have these other people to talk to, and they know what’s happened, and know what’s going on with me. You don’t understand this! I need to be able to talk about this shit, sometimes. Why should I talk to you about it? It’s fucked up! You don’t want this!” 

“You don’t get to tell me what I want.” Mickey pushes his chair back hard enough that it falls back behind him, clattering to the floor. “Don’t you put this on me. You don't talk about it! You don't. You just swallow your pills and shit and pretend it’s fine. Why am I gonna bring it up?”

“I don’t have to tell you all my shit,” he yells back. “You don’t need to know it.”

Mickey kicks at the chair. “But he gotta know it? Shit gets hard and you run to some other guy? You don’t even fuckin’ tell me? Don’t even give me a shot?” 

“It isn’t even _about_ me!” Ian steps closer. “It’s about this guy - it’s about Ben. His boyfriend wanted me to come and–”

“Your bipolar make you fuck around? You fucking him?” 

“No!” Ian shouts. “No, I’m _not_ fucking him. Of course I’m not. You’re not even fucking listening” 

“What'd ya mean of course you’re not? Look what he fucking wrote you!” 

Ian steps closer, lowers his voice. “Look,” he says. “Look, just let me explain. I know it sounds fucked up. I know it’s complicated. But it’s not like that. Let’s just sit down and talk about it.” He reaches for Mickey’s hand, but he yanks it away. 

“Fuck you,” Mickey says. He reaches up and pushes Ian back. Hard. “Get the fuck away from me. Don’t touch me.” 

“No,” Ian says sternly. “No. I said sit down.” He reaches for Mickey again. 

“The fuck did I say?” Mickey pushes him harder, harder and further, and Ian is pressed hard against the wall. He winces. He grabs at Mickey’s arm, pulls him closer. “Don’t fucking touch me,” MIckey says, and even though he pulls his arm out of Ian’s hand, he stays close. His eyes race around the room. His tongue slips out to tap the side of his mouth. “Don’t–”

“Don’t what?” 

“Lie to me. Jerk me around.” 

“I’m not,” Ian says through his teeth. His spine hurts a little. He reaches for Mickey’s wrist. Before he knows what he’s doing, he’s frantically pulling at him, pulling him toward him. He wants to show him. “Mickey, I’m not. There’s no one else.” He pulls him harder, and Mickey struggles, just a little, just enough to get a point across, but his breath is shaky. “You have to believe me. You have to trust me.” 

Mickey yanks away, but grabs Ian by the shirt, pulling him forward and then back against the wall. "What if I can't?"

“You should,” Ian says. "You should trust me like I trust you."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Ian growls, and he pulls at the hem of Mickey’s shirt, fingers sliding beneath and grabbing at his hips. Mickey is breathing hard. “You really think I wanna fuck some other guy? When I can fuck _you_? Your perfect ass? When I get to feel your perfect fucking mouth?” His face moves closer. Closer. 

Mickey’s hands snap up and knock Ian’s away. Ian’s breath is sharp in his throat. Mickey’s hand begins to drift against Ian’s chest. He shoves his hand under his shirt, fingernails scratching. “Yeah? I the best fuck you ever had?” 

Ian nods his head, fast. He licks his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “I swear.” He hisses as Mickey’s fingernails scratch over his nipple. “I’d never.” Mickey squeezes his nipple softly. “Oh fuck,” Ian pants. His mind sparks. "Mickey.” 

"You think anyone can take you better than I can?” His breath is hot against Ian’s face. Mickey’s other hand grabs at his cock. 

Ian shakes his head fast. His eyes fly open, and he doesn’t remember closing them. “No way,” he says. “Fuck. You’re so good, Mick. Want you. Want you all the fucking time.” His hand reaches for Mickey’s face, but Mickey pulls it away. Is it time? It should be. “Mickey,” he says, leaning closer to his mouth. “I lo-”

“Don’t kiss me,” Mickey says. 

“But–” 

“Get on your knees,” Mickey says. His voice is shredded and thick. 

Ian drops fast. He pants hard, mind burning. He doesn’t know what they’ve said, what they’ve decided, what is left. He only knows he wants to show Mickey how much it is only him. He moans as he reaches for Mickey’s zipper. 

Mickey slides his hand against Ian’s hair, scratching lightly against his scalp. He leans back just far enough that Ian can unzip him and pull his pants down. Ian presses his face against him, breathing in hard, hungry as his fingers slip into the waistband of his boxers and pull them down. 

Mickey’s dick is hot against his cheek, hugging his jawbone as Ian mouths against the pale hair below Mickey’s navel. He breathes deeply, the smallest shudder. 

“Suck,” Mickey whispers. 

And he does. He tilts his head and lets Mickey’s hand guide his dick into his mouth, feeding him each inch slowly as Ian moans around him. His lips are stretched and his mouth is wet, and he feels a wave of belonging, an almost tangible relief to be his, to be Mickey’s. 

“Ian,” Mickey groans. 

Ian’s eyes blink up at him, a little wet when Mickey thrusts deeper into his mouth, just a little deeper before he backs off. As he pulls back, Ian’s hands grab against his hips, pulling him closer again. His mouth draws him up and down, and he can’t quite hear what Mickey is whispering, but it’s soft and kind, and it makes his pulse race. He slides deeper and pulls up. It feels sloppy and perfect. 

For all Mickey’s initiative, he is beginning to soften around the edges, and the air shifts around them, just a little. Ian pulls off, finally raising his hand to work him as he pulls back. “You wanna come like this?"

Mickey shrugs, panting. “Depends. What else I get?” 

Ian chuckles. He squeezes just a little bit, grinning. "Whatever you want."

Mickey huffs out a laugh, but his eyes are hooded. “I gotta pick just one?” 

“Okay, then,” Ian grins. “This first. You want it?"

Mickey nods fast. He begins to speak, but Ian cuts him off as he draws the tip of Mickey’s cock into his mouth, sucking, sliding his tongue around. He begins to slip a little lower. “Yes,” Mickey says softly. He reaches down and pulls Ian's hand off his dick, leaving only Ian's mouth. He crowds Ian a little closer to the wall. Mickey’s hand cradles the base of his head, thumb sliding against his jaw. He rocks slowly, and Ian’s vision goes fuzzy. Mickey presses down on his head, just a little. Then, as if changing his mind, he pulls him up again. 

Ian pulls off, pulls away. “It’s okay,” he whispers. “I want you to.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says, hands sliding up Mickey’s sides, eyes locking. “Just go a little at a time, make me take it a little at a time. All of it. Want you to fuck me."

“Fuck,” Mickey says, and his fingers find Ian’s chin, steering him close. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, open.” 

Ian opens his mouth, and Mickey slides in again. Ian closes his eyes as Mickey tightens his grip, thrusting shallowly. “You look so good,” he whispers. “Fuck you’re good.” 

Ian’s eyes flutter open as Mickey begins to press in just a little harder. He can feel every part of him on his tongue. He grips onto Mickey’s hips harder. 

“Hold onto my ass,” Mickey says roughly. “Get your hands up.” 

Ian’s hands quickly move up to hold onto Mickey. He doesn’t pull at him, doesn’t try to control the depth and speed of Mickey in his mouth. He breathes fast from his nose as Mickey eases his head down just a little more. 

"There," Mickey groans. "Oh fuck."

Ian's knees wobble. He focuses his mind on Mickey's hand on his head. Mickey's other hand comes away from the wall, and rests gently against Ian's throat. 

"Yeah," he whispers. "Open your throat." He softly drags his fingers over Ian's neck before he tips him back more, fingers finding a home against his chin. "Look so fucking hot. You love sucking my cock, don't you?"

Ian tries to answer, but he's so full of Mickey. He blinks fast and looks up at him. When their eyes meet, he's overcome with how much he loves this. Loves Mickey in his mouth, hard and wet. He can't think of anything else. He doesn't want to. 

"Ahhhh," Mickey moans. Ian doesn't wait for Mickey's hand to press down harder. His fingers dig into his ass, fingertips pulling at his cheeks. Mickey presses harder into Ian's mouth, thrusting a little. His cock presses against Ian's throat, and Ian tries to soften his body as he fights a gag. Mickey hums and draws back. "Sorry," he whispers.

Ian tries to shake his head. No. He pulls at Mickey harder, brings him back, tries to relax. 

"There. Yeah. You got it." Mickey's thumb slides against his forehead. "Lemme in."

Ian's dick is so hard. He wants to reach for himself, but he can't. Not while Mickey wants his hands on his ass. Ian ties his mind to his hands. His fingers slip closer to the crease of his ass, and Mickey moans. 

"Lemme in, Ian."

And Ian does. He wants to moan, but he can't. He opens, and Mickey is held, he holds Mickey, he closes tight around him, holding, holding, and then up and down and Mickey’s hand holds his head, thrusting faster, and far away, he can hear praise from Mickey's mouth. 

The taste of Mickey. He can taste his beginning on his tongue. Just the start. He can tell Mickey is losing that sense of direction. His voice is tight and high. Ian drops his hand away from Mickey's ass and slides one up his chest. He presses his fingers against Mickey's lips, and Mickey draws them in, sucking hungrily. 

Ian quickly pulls his hand away and reaches for Mickey's ass again. It will burn, it probably will burn, but Mickey is parting his legs and chanting _yes yes fuckin do it_ so he does. Just one, and when Mickey thrusts into his mouth hard, he adds another. 

He can feel wetness at his chin, and his throat hurts, but God it feels good. Mickey holds his head with both hands as he pumps into his mouth. Ian feels woozy and loose, his eyes finding Mickey's in a daze.

Suddenly Mickey pulls away, out of Ian's mouth. Ian weaves in the air, breathing hard. For a moment, he feels lost. Mickey must sense it, because he murmurs "You're okay. That was good. Real good." Mickey's hand comes up and gently pulls down on Ian's hand. Ian’s fingers slip from him. 

"Stand up," Mickey says. 

Ian slowly stands up, and is startled by how dizzy he feels. "What's-"

Mickey lunges forward, kissing him hard and sliding his hands around his back. Ian kisses back just as fiercely. Their tongues slide against each other as their hands wander. Mickey's hand slides over Ian's ass and they groan as Ian's hardness meets Mickey's.

"Fuck me," Mickey whispers against his lips. "Fuck me hard." 

Ian shoves Mickey back, pushing him toward his bed, and smiles as he watches Mickey try and keep his balance with his pants around his ankles. Mickey falls on his back, startled, reaching for Ian with a low growl. 

Ian yanks Mickey's pants off, smiling as Mickey fumbles with his shirt. When he's naked, Ian covers him with his clothed body, holding onto his wrists hard. 

"Ow," Mickey says quietly.

Ian squeezes just a little harder. "Too much?"

Mickey shakes his head. "No. S’good."

It's all Ian needs. His mouth falls against Mickey's neck, nipping and dragging. He presses his pelvis down hard, trying to weigh down Mickey's attempts at raising up. “Stop trying,” he pants. “Let me take care of you.” 

Mickey stops, and he moans as Ian finds his neck again, this time sucking hard. Ian knows he’s leaving a mark. Somewhere visible, at that. Mickey obviously knows too, but he doesn’t stop him. He breathes harder. 

“I’m going to fuck you now,” Ian says, voice low in his ear. “I’m going to finger you open, get you nice and ready for me, and then I’m gonna fuck you into this mattress.” He squeezes at Mickey’s wrists one last time before he backs up and pulls his shirt off. Mickey’s hands reach down and push against Ian’s pants, and soon they are off, too, joining Mickey’s on the floor. 

Ian grabs the lube and pushes Mickey’s knees up and out. Mickey twitches when he squirts the lube against him. Ian makes sure he is staring into Mickey’s eyes as he unceremoniously enters him with two fingers. Mickey’s hands grip at Ian’s forearms. He’s breathing hard, he’s saying _Ian_ and he’s dragging his hands up the inside of his arms, his shoulders, dragging his nails down softly. 

“I’m going to stick my cock in you and I’m going to fuck you, and I’m going to keep fucking you until I say you can come. You’re going to come just from my dick. Just my dick in you. You’re gonna take it as good as I was takin’ you fucking my mouth. Think you can do that?"

Mickey moans as Ian’s fingers press against his prostate, then back off. “I can take it. Take you so good.” 

Ian smiles and slides his other hand against Mickey’s face. “You do. You take me so fucking good. Feel so good, Mick."

Mickey nods. “You too,” he says. "C'mon."

Ian pulls his fingers out and reaches for the condom. Mickey stops him, pulls him back. 

“Don’t.” he says. 

“Don’t what?” 

Mickey searches Ian’s eyes, then looks toward the nightstand. “Don’t use one.” 

His bravado falters. “What?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “We’re both okay, right?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah, we’re both okay, but.”

“So?” 

Ian bends to kiss him. He hesitates. “Mickey, I’m not sure if–”

“You haven’t been with anyone else, right?” His voice is pointed, but hopeful. 

“Right.” 

Mickey’s legs are pressed up against his chest. “Then let’s go.” 

Mickey is warm and soft around him, and his eyes are clear and open. There is a sound, the sound of both their voices blending and stretching out. Mickey’s hand slides up against Ian’s neck.

"Shit, Ian." Mickey's eyes blink slowly up at him. "Feel that?"

Ian nods, breathless. He can hardly look at Mickey's face, so open, so beautiful. His arms shake as he holds himself up. Mickey gives him a look, that certain sort of look he has when he means _kiss me._

His lips are so full. They surprise him, even still. Soft. His mouth moves against his, and when Ian begins to pull away, Mickey sucks at his bottom lip. 

“Move,” Mickey says, breathless, and Ian does. He thrusts slowly, deeply, the way they like it, sometimes, like this. Mickey’s legs shake against his chest. “Harder,” he whispers. “More.” 

Ian sighs, hand pressing into the pillow by Mickey’s head. He pushes in harder, and MIckey is all around him, his voice shuddering deep, whispering _there_ , whispering _more_ , and Ian’s hand grabs at one of Mickey’s legs, pulls it away from his chest, pulls it around him, pulls it high, holds it tightly as his hips speed up. 

Mickey’s eyes are watering. Ian can see them, just a little, and when Mickey tries to close them, Ian whispers “Look at me,” and he does. Mickey’s jaw drops, and there is sound in his breath. “You gonna come? You wanna?” 

Mickey moans hard. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, fuck, I wanna.” 

Ian thrusts harder, faster. Mickey closes his eyes, breath shaking. Ian licks his lips. “Come,” he says. “Come like this.” He presses against his prostate, presses and presses, and Mickey’s voice is so loud it feels like the air is moving around them. 

“There, there, there,” Mickey chants, eyes closed, and his leg shakes beneath Ian’s hand. His head tilts back, mouth open, gasping. Ian presses and presses, and Mickey comes against his chest with a shout. 

“Fuck, yeah,” Ian pants. “Fuck, fuck, that was so fucking hot.” 

Mickey fights to catch his breath. “Now you,” he says, and swallows. “C’mon.” 

Ian shuts his eyes, opens them. Mickey’s hands slide against his ass, pushing him closer. Ian is careful to angle away from Mickey’s prostate. He can’t stop looking at Mickey’s mouth. His beautiful mouth. He moans. 

“Come in me,” Mickey says softly. “Fucking come.” 

Ian shakes as he lets go. He does it. He lets go inside of Mickey, and Mickey groans, eyes rolling back. Ian cries out. A strange sound, something like relief and disbelief all at once. It makes him gasp and then smile. He bends and kisses Mickey softly, fully. “Oh god,” he whispers. “Mickey.” 

Mickey’s other leg slips out from against his chest and slides against Ian’s back. Ian is still inside him, amazed. 

“I’ll go and–” Ian says. “I’ll get some stuff for you.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Just stay like this. Just a second. Just stay still.” 

Ian nods, and he kisses him, and they stay there, looking at each other, deep in their eyes, and there is no doubt, now. There are questions asked and answered, and belonging, and that thing that Ian keeps trying to say, that he wants to say, hanging in the air, just out of reach. 

*

There’s a bang, somewhere outside his window, and Ian’s eyes pop open. He finds himself reaching across the bed, finding nothing. He sits up and rubs his eyes. It’s dark, and the lights are off. 

“Mick?” 

He hears the hum of the refrigerator, and the ticking sound of his air conditioning unit. He doesn’t hear the water running in the bathroom. He leans over to turn the light on. 

He half-expects to see Mickey sitting at the table or something, but there’s nothing. Just his phone. The phone with the message that started all that mess before the rest of it. The mess that fell away, further and further, until there was only that clean light, the overwhelming feeling of being truly Mickey’s. 

The bed smells so good. Like Mickey and sex, like them. He slides out of bed and picks his phone up, looking for a text or something. Nothing. 

_Where’d you go?_ he types.

He stands there, naked, waiting for a few minutes. Nothing comes. He looks at the time. It’s 3:26 a.m. He brings the phone back to his bed. He turns the ringer on so he’ll hear Mickey’s text come through when he writes one. 

He shuts the light off again and tries to find the spot in the ceiling in the dark. Tries to trace it in the darkness. He turns on his side, pulling Mickey’s pillow closer, burying his nose into it, breathing deep. The last thought he has before falling asleep is the way Mickey looks at him when he first pushes into him. It’s the same look, every time, and Ian would never be able to find words for it, for what it looks like. The words just don’t exist.

*

There’s nothing when Ian wakes up again. Nothing on his phone. No messages from Mickey.. He doesn’t have a lot of time, though. He’s got to get to Bowman. He doesn’t have time for a shower, but part of him is glad. He takes a washcloth and sponges himself off while he brushes his teeth. 

As soon as he has his clothes on, he reaches for the phone again. _Is everything ok?_ He types it fast and shoves the phone in his back pocket. 

Traffic is brutal. As much as he loves when he has the van and can just go, it’s frustrating when this happens. But it’s his fault. He left late. He calls Hayley, he checks in. When he slows to a standstill, he reaches for his phone again. 

Nothing. 

Maybe the battery is dead. Maybe he left it at home. Maybe…

_Am I gonna see you today? I’m at Bowman, but I can come by after._

By the time he reaches work, his mind is stuck on only this. Only this fear that he did something, maybe lots of somethings, wrong. He takes the stack of work orders and shoves them on his metal clipboard. He doesn’t take the bait of Hayley’s teasing, he says the briefest hello to Don. 

In the van, he sets his phone on the dashboard. He dials Mickey and puts it on speaker as he pulls out of the lot. It rings, rings, rings, rings, and then Mickey’s voice. _This is Mickey Milkovich. Talk._

He hits the red button, and calls him again. _This is–_

Again. 

_This is Mick–_

Again. 

It sounds like Mickey picks up, then hangs up. 

Again. 

Ring. Ring. Mickey’s voice. His real voice. 

“What is it.” 

Ian pauses, suddenly caught off guard. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you. What happened?” 

“Whaddya mean?”

“You weren’t texting me back. I was worried.” 

“Workin’.” 

Ian squints. He’s trying to see Mickey in his mind, see his expression. “But,” he begins. “I was just wondering what was going on with you? Are you mad at me or something?” 

“No.” 

Ian exits the freeway and rounds the corner before parking on the side of the street. “Something’s up, though. You sure you’re not–”

“Look,” Mickey says, voice clipped. “We can talk later or something. I don’t have time for this.” 

Ian’s eyes sweep along the street. He sees a house with boarded up windows and a roof about to cave in. “Did I do something? What did I do?” 

“I gotta go,” Mickey says. “I’ll call you later.” 

“But–” Ian says, but Mickey has hung up on him. Ian fights the burn in his eyes. Fuck. Fuck. He breathes out slowly. He aims his breath at the busted house, that busted roof. Huff and puff and blow your house down. 

He suddenly feels so stupid. So stupid to think they would have made sense of his mess that quickly, that easily, that their bodies could explain and apologize and accept everything offered. He sits there, closing his eyes, fighting tears. 

Something happens. It rises in a rage. Ian slams his fist against the wheel, over and over until his hand feels like it’s going to break. He can feel it bruising, and he’s glad. If only he had–if only he had–

Fuck. 

There’s a wave of shame, a thick wave full of rocks and tar and garbage. But there on the surface, just below Ian’s head, is something promising, comforting, familiar. He can feel the darkness around his legs, ready to pull him down, but all he can see is the surface, see himself reflected. The more he feels it, feels some part of him staring at it, the more it draws him in. 

He can feel adrenaline everywhere. Fight or flight. Mostly fighting, but he’s fighting himself, fighting the promise of that water. 

He reaches over and grabs at his board. His hand is shaky. He breathes in and out. He looks at his GPS. He has a few more blocks. He breathes deeply and eases away from the curb. He can picture his pocketknife in the glovebox. He passes a gas station, trying not to think of the overpriced plastic packages, cheap disposable razors tucked between the tampons and toothbrushes and aspirin.

Fuck. 

He knows what he’s supposed to do. He knows what’s on the sheet that Amanda had him sign. At the time it seemed like such a great idea. So healthy. So proactive. The doctor says he is making a promise to his body, a vow that he won’t hurt it just because his mind is saying he should. _It’s about acknowledging that sometimes what your brain says is wrong, is a lie. Do you know your brain can lie, Ian? It can lie just like anyone else can lie._

Did he lie? 

To Mickey, did he lie? He didn’t, did he? All of a sudden he doesn’t know. He can’t remember. He can’t remember what happened first. But Mickey believed him, right? Because it’s only Mickey, it’s not any of the Ben or Tom shit. How the _fuck_ did he get so twisted up in their bullshit? If he could take it all back, he would. 

He passes another gas station, just because temptation is real and cruel. He lets his eyes linger too long, and he almost crashes into the car ahead of him. 

_Later,_ the thinks. _If I still feel this way after this house, I can always go back. Lock myself in the bathroom._ He knows how deep he can go without making a mess. He won’t make a mistake. He knows how to do it. Remembers. 

He shakes his head. There is a war inside him, full of terror, and he is hostage. What’s the house number? 904. 904. Okay. Focus. Just look at the mailboxes. 882. Okay. Pay attention. It’s okay. 

He stops the car and presses his fingers into his eyes. He holds up his fist, stares at the long bruise just beginning to form . He wishes it was more. 

*

It’s not right away. It’s not after that house. It’s not even the next house. Or the next. Four houses down the list, and before he knows it, he’s pulling into the gas station, pulling into a parking spot, shifting the van into park, walking in the chiming door, walking to the aisle next to the window, watching his hand reach out for the package, bringing it to the counter, pulling cash from his pocket, saying “thank you,” walking into the one bathroom, and locking the door. 

He cracks the hard plastic handle off on the bathroom sink, careful to keep the head on the thin wrapper. He hates this part. He loves this part. It’s been awhile since it’s felt this strong, the urge, the anticipation. He quickly looks over his shoulder at the door to make sure he locked it. His hands shake. 

The bathroom is filthy. A sour smell underneath the sickening scent of floral air freshener. Pink soap all over the wall. Towels all over the floor. Ian breathes hard, looking around. He watches himself in the mirror, watches his hands reach for his shirt, pull it over his head. He watches his fingers find the line of scars on his upper arm. Mickey knows they are there. He has touched them. He has never mentioned them. 

This won’t be as tidy as that, not as clean and even, but Ian can’t think of any other place to do it. It feels like this is the spot he’s supposed to. The scars are strange. He can hardly remember making them, but they sit there, one after another, a pattern. 

Ian takes a deep breath and brings the razor head to his arm. Not against it. Just hovering there. He takes another deep breath. 

His fingers pause. Ian’s eyes slide off his arm and up to the mirror. 

What the fuck. 

What the fuck is he doing. 

Before he can change his mind, he throws the razor in the trash. That awful, terrible overflowing trash, where he can’t reach in and grab it. His hands shake when he pulls his shirt back on. Oh my god. Oh my god. His heart is beating so fast. That woozy, otherworldly feeling is gone. He almost...he almost…

He barely gets to the toilet in time. He heaves again and again and again. All his coffee, all his lunch, all the pain shooting out from his mouth. 

What the fuck is he doing? 

He flings open the door and rushes for the exit. He makes it to his van before the tears start. Stupid. Stupid. 

He leans his head against the wheel and lets the tears come fast. He can’t believe this. Can’t believe he almost did this. Fuck. He reaches for the phone that he left on the seat. He doesn’t want to call Amanda. He can’t tell her. He can’t tell anyone. He just has to figure out where he has to go next, and clean himself up. He unlocks it and sees two missed calls from Mickey. 

He frantically fumbles with the phone and pulls up Mickey’s number. When Mickey picks up, it makes him want to cry harder. He wipes at his face with the back of his hand. 

“Hey,” Mickey says. “Sorry I couldn’t talk before. What’s up.” 

Ian breathes out slowly. “I just–I thought you were mad at me for some reason. Like all the stuff we were talking about last night.” 

He hears Mickey laugh, just a little, and drop his voice. “Thought we sorted that out. Had the evidence on my fuckin’ thighs when I got up.” 

Ian laughs, but it’s tight, and he feels the burn in his throat and eyes. 

“Eh,” Mickey says. “What’s wrong? You okay?” 

“I’m,” Ian says. He clears his throat. “I don’t know. I don’t know, Mickey. I couldn’t talk to you, and I didn’t hear from you, and it made me–” _Don’t say someone made you, Ian. Use “I” statements_ “I mean, I felt really messed up, I guess. Confused. Got me riled up.” 

“Hey, it’s nothing, don’t worry. It’s cool,” Mickey says lightly. “Sorry, man. I was just all fucked up with this motherfucking tile in that big old bathroom downstairs. Turns out we gotta do some sort of pattern all over with all these different tiles and stuff. Floor. Tub. All that. We was all set to do it regular, but here comes Kowalski with these tiny little pieces and this book about 1930s art deco and I wanna fuckin’ die.” 

“Mosaic,” Ian says. 

“What?” 

“You have to do a mosaic? All the tiles making patterns?” He can feel his breathing slow, just a little. 

“Yeah, that’s it,” Mickey says. “Didn’t know if you’d know what I was talkin’ about.” 

“How’s it going?” 

“Eh,” Mickey says. “Slow. Most of it was figuring out how to plan it all out. Good thing I’m good at math. It’s pretty much just fucking math.” 

Ian smiles against the phone. “So you’re not mad?” 

“Fuck no,” Mickey says. “Why, what’s wrong with you? You sound weird.” 

Ian looks at himself in the mirror. Objects in mirror are closer than they appear. He touches the place on his arm. He cannot believe he almost added to them. “I know,” he says. “I wasn’t doing so good. But I’m okay now.” He swallows. “I just miss you.” 

Mickey laughs. “Needy bitch.” 

Ian feels a laugh come, just a little, and it surprises him. “Fuck you.” 

“I gotta go,” he says. “McGinley’s yellin’ at me. Come over to my house later.” 

“Okay,” Ian says. “Later.” 

He tosses the phone back on the seat. Oh God. He can’t believe it. It’s okay. He’s okay. He’ll write about it the notebook. He will. He’ll even call the doctor or something. He will. He promises himself. He looks back in the side mirror again, and when he moves his head out of the way, the gas station is visible. He shakes his head and starts the engine. 

*  
He's surprised he asked for a beer, but it tastes good. He leans back on the couch, listening to Mickey and Mandy argue. 

He imagines what it would be like if he were someone else, someone from Lake Forest or Glencoe, listening. Sometimes he’d do that when he was growing up. Plopping some imaginary suburban rich kid onto the old couch, listening to Frank and Fiona yell, putting on another hoodie when the heat wouldn’t come on. Some imaginary kid blinking into the dark when the electric was shut off. It would help, somehow, to know he was stronger than any of those kids would ever be. It would make it okay that sometimes there wasn’t quite enough food to eat without stealing more. It would make it okay when Frank barged in, running right at Ian, the way he always did, trying to hit, punch, tear down. Ian could splint a broken arm and tape a cut, and he could hide money and he could run fast and he could throw a punch. He could take a punch. He could fix frayed wire behind a burned outlet. He could draw straight lines without a guide, and he could do 100 push-ups and make a egg white omelet and he could fuck. 

What were those kids’ problems? A check too big? College bills paid for? Deciding between buying a Benz or a Prius, a blue tie or another blue tie? Getting through exams knowing it didn’t really matter, because their dad could get them this corporate job or this other corporate job? What were the problems? Faces without scars? Bodies without scars? Brains without scars?

If he was like that, like them, what would have happened in his head? When would it have happened - the energy and the depression and the break? He tries to imagine a special hospital like some sort of spa or retreat house. He knows they exist. He’s fixed their fucking central air conditioning. He imagines resting there, healing with private rooms and calm doctors who aren’t exhausted from working in a county hospital with too many people packed in, knowing they’ll be let out and probably won’t keep working on getting better. 

He imagines what it would be like to chose to go into a place like that, think to himself _I should take a rest if I feel this bad ._ It feels ugly to remember that he was shoved into Cook’s psych ward on a mandatory hold after he resisted arrest, screaming and thrashing and trying to run from the cops, telling them Jesus would make them pay. Telling them he had information. _I can read your minds! I have a special wall and you can’t read mine! The devil wants you to but you can’t! I am protected by the lord your God!_

Pressed onto the hood, hands rough around his wrists, tears streaming from his eyes, calling out to Angels and the witches that were guarding him with their powers, and they were failing him, one by one. They were failing him and leaving him, and when he was shoved into the car, he felt alone. He had made a mistake. He had made some sort of mistake and the devil was coming for him. He tried to mumble the special protective spell the witches taught him. He thought red orange yellow green blue purple over and over, but when the cop slammed the door, the noise of it made Ian falter. The cop had screwed it up, and Ian started yelling again. He doesn’t remember what he yelled. The next thing he really remembers is waking up, head swimming, barely able to see, in a room full of bunkbeds. 

“You said you’d fix the roof like two months ago!” Mandy yells, stomping into the living room, where Ian blinks and sits up a bit more. Mandy flops down next to Ian and holds out her hand for his beer. “If we have another rain like that everything is gonna get wrecked!” 

Mickey lights a cigarette. Ian can picture his face without turning around. “I’m gonna get to it,” Mickey snaps. “If you haven’t noticed, this time of year is really fuckin’ busy.” 

Mandy gestures with her thumb in Ian’s direction, smiling around the sip of the beer in her hand. “You have enough time for _this_!” She passes the beer back, and Ian stifles a laugh. 

Mickey groans through his teeth. “You wanna fix it so bad? Why don’t you get up on the fuckin’ roof with me?” 

Mandy scoffs. “And have to listen to you boss me around? No thank you.” 

Ian smiles. “You know, I could help out. I told you I could help around here if you wanted.” 

Mickey blinks. “How many roofs you fixed?” 

Ian shrugs. “None.” 

“Don’t want you up there if you haven’t fixed even one roof in your life.” 

Mandy leans back against the couch, closer to Ian. “So you were telling me _I_ should get up on the roof, but you’re too nervous for your boyfriend to go up there? Figures.” 

Mickey looks down and then back at Ian before finding a spot on the wall. “You can help, I guess,” he says to the wall. “But you gotta listen to me. You get cocky and you’ll fuckin fall.” 

“I won’t fall,” Ian says. “I’m not scared of heights.” 

Mickey shrugs. “Fine.” He stubs out the cigarette and stands up. “Another one?” 

Ian looks at the empty bottle. “I don’t know. I want to, but the meds–” He stops. He glances over at Mandy. “I’m...I’m on some medicine that sometimes interacts bad with lots of alcohol.” He feels embarrassed, but Mandy nods. He smiles at her, nudging her with his elbow. “You wanna split one?”  
Mandy sighs heavily. “I wish,” she says. “I gotta get ready for work.” She slaps her hands against her knobby knees and stands up. “You guys have fun.” She grins that grin, that same grin Mickey has, sometimes. She gives a little wave and heads for her room. 

Ian pulls himself to his feet and heads for the kitchen, where Mickey leans against the counter, beer in hand. “You know,” Ian says. “I mean it. I’ll help you. Whatever you need.” 

Mickey nods. “I know,” he says. “Thanks.” He takes a drink. “I gotta get Emerald done first. They just put up a for sale sign today.” 

“No shit?” 

Mickey nods. “Realtors were already banging down the fucking door. Shoulda probably got it up earlier.”

“Wow,” Ian says. “It’s really winding down, huh?” 

Mickey nods. “Just gotta get that fuckin’ mosaic done and we’re almost there.” He rolls his eyes. “Think Sully could help with that?” 

Ian shakes his head. “Nah. Fine detail stuff isn’t his forte.” 

“Was afraid of that.” He chuckles. “What about you?” 

Ian shakes his head. “Sorry. Don’t have enough time.” 

Mickey sighs. He drags his eyes up and down Ian’s body. He does that grin. “What you got enough time for, then?” He reaches out his hand and finds Ian’s arm. 

Ian looks down at Mickey’s hand. F U C K. He’s been thinking about this all day. What to say. It’s been such a long day. He thought it would be better to put it off, the truth, but he has to. He knows he has to. It’s only fair. He hasn’t been fair to Mickey. Not like this. Not with this. 

He reaches for Mickey’s other hand. “I gotta,” he begins. “I think we need to talk.” 

Mickey’s eyes begin to dart around the room. He loosens his grip on Ian. 

“No,” Ian says. “No, it’s okay. It’s not...I’m not, like, breaking up with you or whatever.” The words _breaking up_ feel strange in his mouth, but they taste true. 

Mickey nods. “K. What is it, then.” 

Ian looks at his feet. He remember the way he looked at himself in the mirror in the bathroom of that gas station. How close he was. He remembers the way he felt when he woke up, beyond groggy, in the hospital. All of his voices–all of his secret thoughts–quiet. He thinks of the way his hands would shake, how nauseous he would feel, how he kept dropping words. He thought of how much he slept. He remembers the energy beneath his skin, dancing on that box. He remembers himself going back into the hospital, learning to play cards with mismatched decks. 

“I need to talk to you about my stuff,” he says, swallowing hard. “Something happened today, and I got scared. I’m okay now, I think. But you were right. Before. I haven’t talked about it with you. I’ve been scared to. If I talk about it it makes all my shit more real. I didn’t want to tell you how bad it got before.” He swallows hard, his eyes burn. He can’t get the shake out of his voice. “You’re gonna leave me.” 

Mickey doesn’t move. “You don’t know that.” 

Ian swallows. He can’t help it. They’re coming. The tears. He fights them, but it’s not working. “I don’t want you to leave me.” 

Mickey moves, then. His hand slides against Ian’s cheek. “I won’t,” Mickey says quietly. “You can tell me.” 

“It got bad,” Ian says. “I don’t want it to get bad again. I don’t,” he draws a shaky breath. “Don’t want to fuck this up. You were right, last night. You were so right. You were right. I don’t talk about it. I’m just pretending it’s...I’m just not talking to you about it. I don’t want it to exist. I don’t want it to be part of this. Of us. But today it was. It’s always gonna be part of us. Of me.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Shut up.” 

Ian sniffs. “What? What do you–” 

Mickey swallows. He steps closer. His hand drops from Ian’s cheek and he finds his hands again. “It’s part of this,” he says quietly. “I know that. I’ve always known that.”

“But you don’t know what that means. Not really. Mick, I–” 

Mickey squeezes his hands softly. “I said shut up,” he says. “Just let me get this out.” 

“Get what–” 

“It’s part of this,” Mickey says again. “But that’s–that’s part of you. I know that. I still don’t really get it, but it doesn’t matter. You just gotta trust me. Isn’t that what you said? Trust me like I trust you?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I guess so.” He wants to wipe at his face, but he doesn’t want to let go of Mickey’s hands. 

“So stop pretending that you’re okay all the time. Don’t go run off to some fucked up situation at that fucking club. You don’t do that. You come to me.” He accentuates the last word. “You hear me? You come to _me._ ” 

“Okay, but what if–” 

“Shh,” Mickey says, looking down. He brings their hands together, and his thumbs slide against the backs of Ian’s hands. “Just wait a sec. Let me say it.” 

When he looks up, Ian wants to cry harder. Mickey’s face is open, his eyes are open, so blue, and he is staring right into him. He licks his lips. “It’s okay because…” he takes a deep breath, chews at his bottom lip. “It’s okay because I love you.” 

Ian breathes in but doesn’t breathe out. He can feel his eyes widening. “You–”

“Yeah,” Mickey says, looking down. “That okay?” He looks up again, slowly. “You don’t got to–”

“I love you, too.” Ian wants to reach for him, but can’t move his arms. He’s trying to steady his breathing. 

In the end, he doesn’t have to do anything, because Mickey leans forward, slowly, and slides his lips against his. He slides his hands up Ian’s back and pulls him closer. His mouth is soft, and it feels the way it always feels, like some sort of present Ian unwraps carefully. Ian lets Mickey guide him backward, closer to the sink, and Ian feels like he’s in water again, but it’s so clear, so warm, the sun glinting off the surface, his limbs loose and sure. Not treading water. Not sinking. Just floating there with Mickey in his arms, on his lips, in his brain. That brain of his that feels like it’s broken, sometimes, like he’s been told it’s broken. But Mickey’s hands are on his face, sliding into his hair, and his mind relaxes, and there’s something there, suddenly, that wasn’t there before, something quiet and healed and theirs.


	13. Ceilings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Limits are tested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience! I know this chapter is a long time coming. The next one won't be as long a wait. 
> 
> I also took off the final chapter number up in the description. I am not sure if I have one or two chapters left. We'll have to see, won't we? ;)

The first thing he feels is Mickey’s breath on his neck, followed gently by his lips. He breathes deeply and smiles into his pillow as his body begins to respond. He presses back against Mickey, who is half-hard and slowly sliding his hand over Ian’s bare side, hip, thigh. 

“Morning,” Ian says. 

“Mmm,” Mickey says. He kisses the back of his neck. “Sleepyface.” 

Ian chuckles into the pillow. “You wore me out last night.” 

Mickey laughs into his neck. “Didn’t hear you complainin’. I’m the one whose ass needs a break.” 

Ian groans as he turns over. “Now _you’re_ complaining?” He smiles as soon as he sees Mickey. He’s perfect in the morning, all bedhead and pillow creases, pressing close like he wants to burrow into Ian’s body. Snuggly, (although he’d never admit to the word) with sleepy, soft eyes. Ian will take every shade of morning breath for this. Not that he cares, anyway.

“No, I’m not complaining,” Mickey says. “Was worth it. Just sayin’ is all.” 

Ian drags a finger across Mickey’s forehead. “What’s up, then?” He grins. “Seems like you’re...interested in something.” 

“Maybe,” he says.

"Oh yeah? Like what?"

"There’s _your ass,_ for starters.” 

Ian throws his arm over his eyes and groans. 

Mickey pulls his arm away. “Eh.” 

“Seriously?” His laugh surprises him. 

Mickey breathes out sharply. “Nah, nevermind. It's fine.” He rolls away from Ian and pats at the bedtable for his cigarettes. “Might as well get up anyways.” He sits up. 

“No,” Ian says, hand reaching for his shoulder, pulling him back. He grabs the cigarettes out of Mickey’s hand and tosses them to the floor. Mickey laughs as Ian rolls on top of him, and his laugh fades as Ian slowly grinds down against him. “Don’t get up. Stay.” 

Mickey reaches for Ian’s neck and drags him down to meet in a slow kiss. When he pulls back, his eyes blink slowly. “Hey,” he says. 

“Hi,” Ian whispers. 

Mickey gently pushes him up and away, switching their positions. “Lay back,” Mickey says. 

Ian parts his legs and holds Mickey close with his thighs. “Say it first,” he says quietly. “Before we start.” 

“Start?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. “Start.” 

“So you want to–” 

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says. “I never said no.” 

Mickey breathes a little harder and slides his fingertips against Ian’s forehead. “You wanna hear it?” His voice is both light and teasing, a perfect combination for this exact moment. “Wanna hear what?” 

“Nevermind, let’s get up,” Ian says with an exaggerated sigh. He begins to push up against Mickey, but laughs when Mickey presses him down again. 

“Okay! Alright!” Mickey drops his head to kiss along Ian’s neck, ear, temple.“I fuckin’ love you.” 

Ian’s hand finds Mickey’s head when he begins to pull away. “Again.” 

“Fuckin’ greedy.” 

“Sure am.” 

Mickey kisses him hard, only releasing so his lips can kiss his way down his body. He sighs as Mickey mouth pulls against his collarbone, heading lower, softly finding Ian’s nipple, breath wet, lips slow and soft, just before he gives his kiss a little clench of teeth. Ian’s shaking breath melts into a moan. “Mick,” he sighs. 

Mickey’s lips pull harder, his bottom teeth working him just a little bit more. 

“I want you,” Ian says, and it startles him. It’s like he’s talking in his sleep. There is no filter, just something driving him that feels like breathing. “I want you so bad.” 

Mickey raises his head. He pulls himself up a bit, and _fuck_ his hand drops down and he begins to pull Ian slowly. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What do you want?” 

“You know what I want,” Ian pants. 

“Already said I love you,” Mickey says. His thumb slips over the head. “That what you want?” 

Ian nods fast. “More.” 

“Yeah?" Mickey teases. Ian tries to smile, but can’t quite concentrate with Mickey’s hand pulling him. “You like me touchin’ you like this?” 

Ian nods with a groan. Mickey lets go, and his hand slides back up Ian’s body. Ian’s skin is alive. He feels like he’s shaking. Is he? He is. He feels like every place Mickey touches is the best place, the place he’s waited for. “Please.” 

“Please what?” 

“Wanna feel you.” 

Mickey nods fast and kisses Ian, once, softly. Ian’s hand rises to touch his face. There’s just the barest hint of stubble along his jaw, and Ian finds the tiny freckles he can see so much better up close like this, mouth to mouth. “Can you say it?” Mickey’s voice is soft, a whisper. 

Ian nods. 

Mickey reaches for the table again, this time searching for lube. It’s right there. It’s right there waiting for them, just like it was last night, again and again. He pops the cap and soon he is circling and entering Ian with one finger, quickly followed by two, and Ian kisses him, whispering into his mouth. 

“Say it,” Mickey whispers in his ear as his fingers move with Ian’s circling hips. “Please.” 

His lips brush his cheek. “I love you,” he whispers. “Fuck. So much.” 

When Mickey reaches for the table again, Ian stops him. “Just you,” he says. “Wanna feel just you. I don’t want you to wear one either.” 

“You sure?” 

Ian nods, and when Mickey enters him, he closes his eyes and breathes hard. It’s overwhelming, just like before. He doesn’t have to say a word. He feels Mickey inside him, feels the stretch, feels Mickey’s fingers against his forehead, hears Mickey’s breath, hears his own. He hears someone say _yeah._ Say _yeah, oh fuck._ He knows he’s the one who said it, but it’s that thing again, that thing like breathing. Muscle memory reminding him how it feels when he is here, like this, under Mickey. He doesn’t open his eyes, just nods and whispers a word, but he doesn’t know what. 

Mickey’s pace is exactly what he hoped. It’s smooth, the thrusts easy and measured, searching for and finding him. Ian opens his eyes. His eyelids feel heavy and thick, but he can feel them widening slowly. He huffs out a sharp little breath when Mickey finds his prostate, another huff and he’s squeezing against Mickey’s back, fingertips tight and pulling. His thighs begin to shake, and he feels himself begin to rock harder, seeking out more pressure, more something. He cries out and Mickey’s body begins press harder against him, slipping deeper, sharpening his pace. Mickey finds him again and again, and all they are is this - these bodies in the early morning. Warm. Warmer. Hot. Ian’s eyes squeeze tight as his mouth falls open, and he tries to be quiet. He really does. But Mickey is speeding up, just a little bit, and then more, and breathing into his neck, and when Ian tries to reach between them, Mickey leans harder on one arm and drops his hand to take over, batting Ian's hand away. Mickey groans, groans “C’mon. Gonna–” 

Ian nods fast, dizzy. “Me too. Go ahead. Do it. I want it. You can. Just go.” 

“You sure?” 

“Yeah,” Ian pants. “Yeah, I’m sure. Fuck.” 

The sounds they are making are so similar, sounds so steady and connected, just like they are connected here, connected in Ian. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Ian says, staring into Mickey’s bright eyes, seeing something bright there, revealed like a stone under sand. He feels lost, just for a minute, feeling...what is it? Something like fear, but not quite. Something softer than fear. 

“You’re okay,” Mickey pants. “Just let go,” he says. “I gotcha. Let go.” 

And Ian does. He lets go, both hands flying away from wherever, from whatever, he was holding onto in his head. He gasps and shakes, back bowing as comes hard. Mickey is right behind him, and when he releases into Ian’s body, Ian can feel it, all of it. It feels better than he thought it would. A lot better. He feels like he could come again, just from that. 

Fuck. 

Ian closes his eyes as Mickey pulls out and rolls onto his back. His eyes are still closed when Mickey finds his hand. 

“You okay?” 

Ian nods, not opening his eyes. “Yeah,” he breathes. “Yeah, I’m okay.” 

Mickey squeezes his hand before letting go. Ian can hear him shuffling and sitting up. He keeps his eyes closed. The bed drips and then straightens again. 

First he feels his skin tingling, sensitive everywhere. He feels boneless. Loose. Weighted in stillness, fingers quiet, breath slowing. He can’t remember the last time he’s been this still, not moving anything. Just the rising and falling in his chest, rising and falling from the top to the bottom, like the ceiling to the floor, like the top of the water to whatever lies beneath. 

Something begins to change, then. It begins slowly, slow enough that he thinks to himself _what did this? Why now?_ He doesn’t want to open his eyes. He feels his chest rise and fall, feels a tightening then a releasing, like when he goes on a run and then suddenly stops because he has a cramp in his side. 

He won’t open his eyes. Not yet. He can’t, can’t because he’s afraid. Suddenly, completely afraid. There’s a strange image in his mind, one that slowly begins to take over his thoughts. Once it starts to creep in, he can’t stop the thought, and it begins to blur the edges of everything he feels, everything he thinks. It is like the lens of a camera focusing on something very small, everything a blur except that one tiny thing, and he can’t pull the camera away. 

It’s the ceiling caving in. In his mind, he sees it start to bend and buckle, fold in on itself like a toy he had once. What was it? What was it called? He found it on the bus right after Easter. He was 8, maybe 9? Probably 8. Wood blocks and ribbon. What was it called? Jacob’s ladder. Jacob’s ladder? He tipped it and it shuffled down, each block, the ribbon catching. He turned it the other way and it did the same all over again. He did it all the way to his house. He couldn’t figure out how it worked. He breathes out slowly, realizing he’s been holding his breath. Jacob’s ladder. He’ll look it up. He has to look it up. Now? On his phone? No. Maybe later.

He hears Mickey walking back into the room. His brain shows him the picture again, the ceiling shuffling back and forth. Jacob’s ladder. What else? How could he explain it? How would he, if he had to. _To who? The doctor? The doctor! You have to go back to the hospital, you sick fuckup!_ His chest heaves a little at the thought. _Chill out, not the doctor, stupid. Not the hospital._ He breathes a little slower. It’s going to pass. It usually passes. It’s not real. It’s just him, trying to cancel this thought, trying hard to erase this image that barges into his mind, trailing this messy thought process behind it. This image. This image that moves like what? What else? An accordion? One of those little fans that slap open with a flick of the wrist?

“What’s up?” 

Ian shakes his head but doesn’t open his eyes. He swallows. It’s fine, right? There’s nothing there, right? Right. When the ceiling starts to buckle in his mind again, he imagines a stop sign, just like his doctor said. _If your thoughts begin to race, become intrusive or obsessive, imagine a stop sign. Or, if it gets bad, psychosis gets a stop sign. Visions, thoughts, whispers? Stop sign._ His brain builds a stop sign and tosses it at the ceiling. 

“Ian.” 

This isn’t psychosis. It’s not. It’s just a thought, a thought that got stuck on repeat. Just a lie. A picture. Nothing more. Stop sign. He opens his eyes, slowly. He looks at the ceiling, and it’s just there. Flat. Water damage. It isn’t moving, not even when his brain urges it to move. Tests it. It’s not real. Not even a little bit. He feels his breathing slow. He feels something smooth out inside him, and then he feels that stillness again. He breathes. 

Mickey pulls the sheet back and slides in. Ian clenches at the sheet to keep it close to his body. His eyes drop to meet Mickey’s face, and immediately he feels guilt rush over him. 

“What’s goin’ on with you.” Mickey says, elbow propping him up. “Is it–was it not, you know…” He trails off, and the guilt piles higher on Ian’s chest. 

“No,” Ian whispers. He reaches an arm out. “Mick, it was great. Really. Felt really good.” 

Mickey nods slowly, but Ian can see the hints of disbelief begin to crawl across his features. Mickey falls onto his back. He crosses his arms and pulls the sheet up a bit. Ian watches him out of the corner of his eye. Mickey is looking at the ceiling. Suddenly, Ian is afraid to look. 

“Mickey,” he says. “It’s not you. It’s. It’s this. This thing. It happens sometimes. All of a sudden I start thinking of something and my brain starts twisting it around.” 

“Twisting it like how.” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. “It’s...it’s dumb. It doesn’t really matter what it is. It’s just how my brain works sometimes. It’s like how a dog finds something and it just keeps tearing into it and won’t let go of it. You know what I mean?” 

Mickey laughs, just slightly, under his breath. “My dad had a pitt like that when I was growin’ up. Once he almost ripped my brother Jamie’s hand off. It's totally fucked up now." 

Ian’s eyes open wide in horror before shrinking back. “Woah.” 

“Yeah.” Mickey leans up on his elbow again. He squints at something on the sheet before he looks back at Ian.“So that was what was goin’ on?” 

Ian shifts, just slightly. “Yeah,” he says quietly. 

“What was it? That thing you were thinkin’ of.” 

Ian’s hand finds Mickey’s. He smoothes the back of his hand with his thumb. “It doesn’t matter,” he says softly. “It’s over now.” He pulls him to his mouth, kissing him slowly, confidently. “Everything’s okay.” It is. It is. The ceiling is still, and Mickey’s skin is warm. 

“Were you, you know,” Mickey says, tongue tapping his lip. “Was it– did you _wanna_ do what we did? Because when I was sayin’ that shit it didn’t mean you had to do it or nothin’. I didn’t mean–” 

Ian shakes his head. He reaches up and gently pulls him closer. “Mick, no. I wanted to. It was perfect.” 

Mickey smiles a little. Just at first. Proud. “How’d the stuff start, then? Like, how?” 

“When you went to the bathroom,” Ian said. “I don’t know. Sometimes big emotions can set things off. Orgasm maybe? Maybe not. I’m not sure.” 

Mickey bites at his lip. “Well, that don’t seem fair.” 

Ian laughs gently. “It’s not. I should be basking in the afterglow with my incredibly hot boyfriend.” 

“Fag,” Mickey snorts, cheeks flushed. 

Ian pushes Mickey back by the shoulder and eases his body over to cover him. His brain is slowed down. There’s a little piece, a tiny crumb, that reaches back up and tries to touch the ceiling, but he throws up the stop sign, thick as Mickey’s lips under his. 

“Hey,” Mickey says softly. “What were you gonna say before?” 

“Before when?” He kisses along Mickey’s jaw, slowly. 

“Last night,” Mickey says, breath losing its steadiness. “Said you had somethin’ to talk about.” 

The razor, the gas station bathroom. The phone unanswered, the cool spot in his bed when he woke up in the middle of the night. Stop. Stop. 

Ian’s forehead finds Mickey’s. He shakes his head slowly. “Nah,” he says. “Nah, it’s okay. S’all stupid stuff.” 

“You sure? Cause–” 

Ian kisses him hard. His arms begin to bracket around his head and he hums against Mickey’s lips when Mickey’s hands press against his ass, holding him close. “Just touch me,” Ian says quietly. “Just forget that shit. No big deal.” 

Mickey’s hand slides into his hair, pulls just slightly. “No,” he says softly. “Tell me.” 

Ian sighs and rolls off of Mickey again. “Fine. I was just feeling weird yesterday when you were gone, you know, when I got up. And then you didn’t call me or text me back. I just…”

“Knew it,” Mickey says. “Shoulda known you’d get bent outta shape with that. Woke up and couldn’t get backta sleep, that’s all. Decided to get some fresh clothes and get to the site early.” 

“But you can’t just do that,” he says. There’s no blame, just a slight tinge of neediness he is trying to disguise. “I start thinking things.” 

“Things like what.” 

“Just,” he says. “I don’t know. Things.” 

“Like how come I don’t text you back type-a things?” 

Ian nods. “That stupid?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Guess I just didn’t think of stuff bein’ like that. Not used to people doin’ that.” 

“What, worrying? Wondering if you’re okay?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Yeah. I guess.” 

Ian smiles and pulls at Mickey’s arm, sliding his hand into Mickey’s as he rolls over on top of him again. Mickey squeezes his hand as his mouth falls open a little. Ian can tell that he wants to be kissed. He waits. 

“I worry,” Ian says softly. “I wanna know what’s up. Think you can let me know next time?” 

Mickey’s eyes are now firmly on Ian’s mouth. He nods. He slides his hand around Ian’s waist and finds his ass. Not pushing. Not pulling. Just resting there. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I can do that.” 

Ian nods. “Good,” he says. He bends down and kisses Mickey. “Touch me,” he says again. 

Mickey does. He does and he does, fingertips dragging. Ian breathes harder and harder until he feels every part of himself wanting to hold Mickey. 

“Here,” Ian says, sitting up, knees hitting either side of Mickey’s waist, reaching for the tube. He reaches behind himself, fingers sliding against what Mickey left behind, slipping his newly slick fingers inside himself, just slightly. It’s something he would have never considered, before. Before Mickey. But here he is, now, discovering this, wanting this. 

He's ready. He catches Mickey’s eyes. Mickey is squinting at him, as if he's trying to read every fleck of green in his eyes. He runs his hands over Ian’s thighs, his hips, his waist. Mickey breathes hard. “Fuck, you look real good,” he whispers. 

Ian nods, eyes firm against his, at least at first. As he slowly lowers himself down, his eyes roll back. His hand finds Mickey’s chest as he bottoms out. He groans as Mickey’s cock pushes deeper inside him. He shudders. It’s the first time he’s done this. Been on top like this. He feels exposed and open, all raw nerves and tender skin. Mickey begins to bend his legs, the position pushing them closer together, rocking, deepening, and Ian cries out, hard and loud. It’s so much. So much. He feels like he’s crumbling, crumbling like that ceiling in his mind. He falters, just a second, as he remembers it. But it’s not there. It’s just this. Just the feeling of Mickey inside him. So strong, so pointed and perfect. “Mick,” he gasps, gasping again and again. 

Mickey thrusts up into him, and Ian presses down, and the moments tick by, sticky and slow. Ian knows Mandy is probably sitting in her bedroom right next door, but he can’t help the sound his voice makes. 

They come together, shaking and sighing, and Ian gulps air in as Mickey releases inside him again. “Oh fuck,” Ian says. “It’s–it’s–” 

“It’s what?” Mickey pants.

Ian shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says, startled that he spoke at all. “It’s–good,” he says, sighing, skin tingling.

Mickey taps his knee, and Ian eases off, wincing, messy. “Good,”

Ian swallows. He’s still breathing hard from his orgasm. He feels slickness against his ass and thighs, and he knows he should get up to clean up, invite gravity and tissues and water. He doesn’t want to move. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, real good.” 

The stay like that, breathing and staring at the ceiling, until their breath slows. 

“Eh,” Mickey says, and Ian turns his head. “You’d tell me, right? If shit got weird? Or things weren’t good? You got mad at me or whatever? Or if you start feelin’, you know.”

“What, crazy?” It’s small and honest. 

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Mickey says quietly. “But you’d tell me if it’s like? Like you stop feelin’ okay? You gotta tell me, okay? Gotta trust me, right? That what you say, right?” 

Ian hesitates, and Mickey is right on him. “Ian, you need to tell me. You hear me?” 

“I hear you,” Ian says quietly. He thinks of things. Things that are past, that aren’t worth saying. That crack when he busted the head off the razor. The lines on his arm. His face in the mirror when he realized what he was doing. “I will,” he says. The harsh scribbles in the notebook, the ceiling he’s still afraid to look at, just in case. These things are the past. He will start from now, from this place. He will tell him, next time.“I will,” he says again. “I promise.” 

*

He didn’t sneak off. He didn’t. 

The key slides into the lock as easily as he slid himself out from underneath Mickey’s arm. It slides just like the pen on the paper, the note he left as Mickey slept. 

His apartment smells like lemon. It’s pleasant, not too strong. He closes the door, squinting. He can’t remember the last time he had a lemon in his apartment. He takes a few steps in. It’s stronger by the kitchen. He pauses there by the small table, staring at the sink. He feels that response, it’s all flight, flight, flight. 

“Hello?” 

His voice isn’t steady. He doesn’t know what to do. For a minute, his brain panics. The part of his brain on hyper-alert, the brain that makes stop signs. _Some people have olfactory hallucinations!_ He shakes his head. Not that. Not common. Not common at all. Very rare. But it wouldn’t surprise him if it happened to him. Of course it would, now that he was happy, happen to him. 

But there. There! Something by the sink, something on top of his notebook. He’s crossed the room before he realizes it. 

It’s a piece of paper, torn from his notebook. Ian can recognize Amanda’s handwriting immediately, tightly looped and evenly spaced. 

_I -_

_Came by tonight but you weren’t here. I had a feeling something was up. I tried calling and knocked a lot, then got a little spooked and let myself in with the old emergency key. I know it’s only for emergencies and a violation of your privacy and blah blah blah but I know you’ll know I was right. Sorry. I waited around a little. Then started cleaning stuff. So you now have a clean apartment because that’s the kind of thing I do when I’m bored and can’t run someone’s life._

_Call me,_

_A_

Ian chuckles. The sink is shining. The window is clear. The little cobweb in the corner of the wall (he always intends to swipe it out, but never does) is gone. He begins to crumple up the paper, but then unfolds it and reads it again. 

He looks at his phone, and yes, there are three missed calls. He realizes he didn’t look at his phone. Not once. Not even on the train. He stared out the window and then at his hands. Then back to the window. He thought about how he felt stretched, still. Thought about how nice it feels, really. Thought about work. Thought about that mosaic. What it looks like. He wants to go see it. 

He tosses the paper in the paper bag he uses for recycling. He picks up his keys again and opens the door. He opens the text box to text Amanda before sliding it back into his pocket. He will drop by with no warning. He smiles. Two can play this game. 

* 

He can hear Ruby crying as he knocks on the door. It’s not too hard, but probably enough to drown him out. He waits. Waits a little longer. Opens the door. 

Ruby is lying back in a bouncer seat, face red, little feet kicking, body twisting to the side and trying to roll on her side. Ian unbuckles the straps on the seat and picks her up slowly. 

“Shh,” he says, bouncing her a little. “It’s okay, Rubes. What’s wrong, huh?” He hair so so dark. She hiccups and burrows her head into him when he guides her to his chest and shoulder. “Where’s your mama, huh? Is she getting dressed?” He slides his hand over her back, and even though she’s getting bigger - four months, now, she still snuggles against him like she always has. “Where’s your mama?” 

He cranes his neck. She isn’t in the kitchen. 

“Hello?” Ian calls. 

The toilet flushes, and the bathroom door opens. 

“I was just about to clean your place,” Ian laughs. “Payback for–” His face falls when he sees him. “Oh. Hi.” 

Lip has a towel in his hands, and tosses it aside after he’s done. “Hey.” 

Ian clenches his teeth and stops bouncing Ruby. “Where’s Amanda?” 

“Ran out for a bit,” Lip says. “Needed some air.” He taps a cigarette out and puts it between his lips. He starts to fumble for a lighter. 

“You’re gonna smoke around your baby?” Ian scoffs. “I mean, really?” 

Lip takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “No. Just looking for a lighter. Now that you’re here I might actually get to go have one outside. She’s crying’ a lot today. If I didn’t know better I’d think she was cuttin’ a tooth.” 

Ian glances down at Ruby, who has begun to lick at her fist. “She could be. It’s not like she’s a lot earlier than Carl was, remember?” 

There’s a little glimmer in Lip’s face, that recognition. Ian can see that he remembers, then - remembers how the two of them would take turns holding him, pacing the floor as he wailed. They were just little kids. Younger than however old he was when he found that Jacob’s Ladder on the bus. They would wet down washcloths, stick them in the freezer. Guide them to Carl’s sore gums and let him mouth against it, sniffling, arching away from it to cry. He wouldn’t nurse. It hurt too much, apparently, and it was just as well. Monica would be passed out by then anyway. 

“Yeah,” Lip says. “Yeah, maybe you’re right.” 

Ian looks back at Ruby. Her eyes are closing, slowly. He is surprised, every time, at how much heavier a baby feels when they are sleeping. “She’s falling asleep,” Ian says quietly. “You can go smoke, I can just hang out here.” 

Lip hesitates, but pulls out the cigarette pack to slide it back. “Nah,” he says. “It’s okay. Haven’t seen you in a while anyway.” 

Ian sits down on the couch and leans back, still holding his hand on Ruby’s back. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ve been real busy with work and stuff. Still got those two jobs.” 

“Yeah?” Lip has a weight to his voice. “How’s that goin’? You doing good?” 

Ian swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I mean...I’m tired a lot. But it’s not going to be much longer.” He doesn’t know why, but it’s hard to meet Lip’s eyes. “I can tell I need a break, honestly. But really, it’s almost over.” 

“How’s the...you know. You’re taking all the stuff you should be?” 

Ian nods. “I’m fine,” he says. “Went to the doctor a while ago. It’s all fine. I’m fine.” 

“Good,” Lip says. “What about the guy? Amanda says you got a new boyfriend?” 

Ian can feel the look on his face before he looks up. Sure enough, Lip’s mouth is curled up, just a bit, his eyes playful. 

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says. “Did she say who it is?” 

“No,” he says. "She said I’d need to talk to you first. You really have her on lockdown. She doesn’t tell me any details. She told me she broke into your apartment last night, though.” 

“Technically it isn’t breaking in if you have a key, but.” 

“So who is he?” 

Ian grins. “Mickey Milkovich.” 

“The fuck? Are you serious, man?” 

“Yup. Very.” 

For a minute they are like they were, then. Before they lived apart. Before they left that room, falling asleep to the sound of each other’s breathing. They are laughing, snickering really. Ian notices, like he does sometimes, how much Lip’s eyes are like Fiona’s and Carl’s, even Frank’s. His lips are like Carl’s. He wonders what he looks like on the outside. He wonders what Lip sees, who Lip sees, in his face. 

Lip keeps chuckling, slides his thumb over his nose, just like he did when he was a kid and found something amusing. The sight of it comforts him, and suddenly he doesn’t know why he’s been mad at Lip for so long. 

“I’m,” he begins. “I’m sorry I haven’t been more in touch.” 

Lip nods. “Me too,” he says. “I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do. Ever since you went back into the hospital that time, I felt guilty. I knew I shouldn’t have–” 

“It’s not your fault,” Ian says quietly. “You did what you had to. I knew if I told her, something might happen. I’m not mad at you anymore. Not really.” 

They’ve never really talked about it. Talked deeply about it. Never ripped the memory apart to see the bones. “I didn’t want to,” Lip says. “I knew how much you didn’t want to go back in.” 

Ian shrugs. He can feel drool on his shirt. Ruby snores her baby snore. “I know you did,” he says. “But I made that deal with Amanda for a reason. I wasn’t happy with the way it all happened, and was mad at you for a while after, but what happened isn’t your fault.” 

Lip swallows and looks up at him. “It isn’t yours either,” he says. “You know that, right?” 

Ian nods slowly. “Yeah, I know.” 

Lip stands up slowly. “Cool if I?” He gestures with his head at the back door and brings his cigarettes out again. 

“Sure,” Ian says. “We’re fine here.” 

He hears the screen door close, and smells a little bit of the cigarette smoke come through the kitchen. Ruby’s fingers twitch, and she squirms a little. Ian pats her back and gives a little hum. He feels his pocket buzz. 

_You home? I’m at your place and knockin_

He grins. _Miss me already? Thought I wore you out?_

_Fuck off. Where are you?_

_My brother’s. I think I’m leaving soon though. Wanna meet at the waffle place?_ He shifts Ruby over a little more so he can type more comfortably. 

_Nah, was just gonna go by the site and see how things ended up. Kowalski texted and said he hired a couple guys to go finish up this morning. Gotta go make sure they aren’t fuckin up my site._

_Can I come see?_

_Course. Give me a couple hours in case they fucked it up._

Ian smiles. _I’ll head over at noon. I’ll bring you lunch. Maybe I can include a little treat if you’re a good boy._ The adds a wink emoticon. Mickey hates those. 

_Ha._

Ian tosses the phone aside. He smiles into Ruby’s hair. “I’m happy,” he says quietly. “I’m really happy, Rubes.” He hears the screen door beginning to open, and thinks of what he will say to Lip next. 

*

He went and bought some turkey. For a while, he stood in front of the roast beef. He knows Mickey would have liked it more, but oh well. He is going to make up for it with pringles (bbq - he learned that after Mickey grouched about Ian buying jalapeno.) He got him a snickers bar as a treat. It feels so domestic - pulling everything out of the grocery bag and pulling down some bread. Mickey will hate the heavy wheat bread and the crusts. Fine. He’ll cut the crusts off. Mickey will probably rib him for it, but he knows that he will appreciate it. 

Mayo. Obviously. Some cheese. He puts a leaf of lettuce on top, plus a tomato. He can picture Mickey pulling the tomato off and throwing it somewhere, but that’s okay. 

He packs it all up in the bag again, and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge. He pats his pockets to make sure he has everything and he heads out the door. 

He’s walking to the train when the message comes through. 

_Hey don’t come out here_

He stops. Frowns. _How come?_

There’s a long pause. Long enough that Ian starts walking again. _It’s fine. You just don’t need to. I’ll be coming back soon anyways. Meet you at your place._

_I already made your lunch_

Nothing. He keeps moving ahead. He’s grouchy. That’s all. Lunch will do him good. He is used to going hungry–he grew being used to going hungry–but he gets hangry all the same. It’ll just be a minute. He’ll swing by, drop off the bag, look at the mosaic quick if Mickey lets him, and leave.

_Mickey_

Nothing. 

He slides his card at the turnstile and heads for the train. He has a bag with a lunch in it. A lunch he made, just for Mickey, and he knows Mickey will be grateful. The kind of grateful he expresses by a short, quiet _thanks_ when his eyes flutter up and then down, gingerly moving his fingers around whatever is offered. 

*

He doesn’t see Mickey out front, but he sees a truck he doesn’t recognize. It must be one of the new guys Kowalski hired for the weekend. Maybe Mickey already left? He sees the van, but he might have left it. He does, sometimes. 

He heads for the doorway. He hears voices - one of them is Mickey’s. He knocks on the doorframe. 

“Hello?” 

Mickey’s voice stops. 

Ian starts to walk into the room, swinging the bag just a little. He looks around the foyer. He can’t believe how quickly this is all suddenly coming together. He is heading for the kitchen when they all come out. 

“Ian,” Danny says. “It’s been a while. How ya been?” His lip curls up, like he’s stifling a laugh. 

He clenches his teeth. He looks at Mickey, standing behind Danny, just to the left. “I’m fine,” he spits. “What are you doing here?” 

“Tilework. You?” 

“I was just–” he looks down at the bag in his hand. He is so stupid. He looks at Mickey again. “Nothing. Forget it.” 

The third man speaks, loudly, almost exaggerated. He's trying. “Let’s get back, Dan,” McGinley says. "I gotta be home for my kid at 2."

Danny ignores him. “What have you been doing? Besides other fags, I guess I should say.” He laughs, (actually laughs!) at his own joke. 

“Eh, enough,” McGinley says. 

Danny shakes his head. “I’m kidding,” he says. “C’mon, he knows I’m kidding. It’s a joke.” 

“Not laughing,” Ian says. He can feel his hands clenching into fists. Fight. “You really wanna go here with me again?” 

Mickey says nothing. He stands there, hands drifting up to hips, shifting his feet. “Told you that you didn’t need ta show up, Gallagher,” he says sharply. “Don’t got anything for you until Monday. You don’t gotta show up on the weekend.” 

Ian huffs under his breath. Unbelievable. “Are you _serious?_ You invited me here.” He opens and closes his mouth. Fuck it. Fuck him. “I brought you lunch.” 

He sees something in McGinley’s face. Something a little like pity, a little like fear. “Go ahead, Mickey," McGinley says. "Danny and I got this. Danny, go get the rest of that grout out of the truck. I don’t want to stop again.” 

“Hang on,” Danny smiles. “Hang on. You brought lunch? What about us?” 

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Ian spits, teeth clenched. 

Danny laughs a little under his breath. “Mickey’s just extra-special, then? This a date?” 

Ian rushes over. He’s so fast. His hands are all over him, and he hears McGinley say “Easy! Easy!” And his arms are being held back. 

“That’s enough!” McGinley shouts. His hands reach out, hold them apart. 

Mickey stands there, still, looking at him. His mouth is open. 

“What!” Ian screams at him. “You’re just gonna stand there?” 

Mickey swallows. “What.” 

“You’re just–” Ian closes his mouth. He feels his eyes start to burn. Fuck. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

Mickey’s eyes go wide and race around the room. He crosses his arms and steadies his gaze on Ian. “Go home,” he says. “We’ll talk about this later.” 

There’s a laugh. It’s Danny, laughing, and he doesn’t stop. When Ian looks at him, he sees him looking at Mickey, and then back to him. “You gotta be shitting me.” 

“What,” Mickey spits. 

“You’re,” Danny laughs. “You’re, like, _boy_ friends? Holy shit. McGinley, you know about this?” 

McGinley steps closer. “You shut your mouth. What the hell are you doin’.” 

Ian closes his eyes. It’s as good as done. As good as sealed. 

“No,” Mickey says. 

Mickey’s voice is steady and certain. “No,” he says again. 

“Look,” McGinley says. “No one’s gonna fight, okay? Let’s drop it. Danny? We gotta finish. You keep your homophobic garbage to yourself.” 

“Oooh, I’m _homophobic_ now? I’m just kidding around! C’mon!” 

“It’s not a joke,” Ian says. “Just try me. Try. I’ll fucking kill you.” 

“Ian,” Mickey says. “Go home. I’ll call you later.” 

“I knew it.” Danny mumbles. 

“And you!” Mickey says, pointing. “You shut the fuck up. You hear me? We’re not boyfriends. I’m not gay. Shut up. I’m not gonna have this again on my site. I’m not gay. If he is, that’s fine. Just shut up about it and get back in there.” 

Danny shrugs. “You’re the boss.” 

Ian can barely hear him. He drops the bag on the floor. He doesn’t know where. His mouth is dry and he is queasy. He’s halfway across the yard when Mickey catches up to him. 

“Hey, you don’t have to do this.” Mickey is panting, eyes shifting. He gets close and then backs away. “It’s just some bullshit. Don’t listen to any of –”

“Not gay, huh? Not boyfriends?” His lips are tight. He wants to run. He pulls back the collar on his shirt, showing Mickey the dark mark he made the night before. “What’s this, then.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Look,” he says. He glances over his shoulder. “It’s nobody’s business. Not guys like Danny, anyways. Who gives a fuck what he knows or not? Don’t even gotta see him all that long. The more we feed the fire, the worse he gets. Why’re you getting so dramatic about it?” 

There’s a little flood that comes over Ian, threatens to pull him away. “Because you’re not free,” he says. 

“Ian, what you and I have makes me free. Not what these assholes know.” 

Ian closes his eyes, fighting the tears that burn there. “Why are you doing this?” 

“I’m not doing anything,” Mickey says. “Fuck Danny. He don’t matter.” 

Ian opens his eyes. He stares at Mickey for a long time. He feels his stomach roll, and then a strange, almost weightless feeling rising up from the ground. He can feel his sweat. He can’t feel his feet in his shoes. 

“I don’t think I can do this,” Ian whispers. 

The panic in Mickey’s face is immediate. “No,” he says quickly. “No. You don’t got to do that. Just hold on.” 

Ian shakes his head. He clears his throat. He can’t. He can’t cry. Not here. Not now. 

Mickey steps forward, far enough that if Danny were to look, look out here, right now, there would be no doubt. _Fags. Fags being faggy together._ Fuck him. Fuck Mickey, too. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, and his voice is still all jangled panic and something desperate, something more desperate than anything else Ian has heard. For a moment, he wants to comfort him. He can’t. “You can’t do this. Not now. Look, all this shit don’t matter. You know how I feel about you. Last night, you know. You know?” His voice pulls into the air, circling Ian’s head, trying to pull him closer. 

Ian shakes his head. “I can’t,” he pants, suddenly having trouble breathing. “I can’t be like this. Hiding like this. I love–” his eyes threaten to let them loose, all of them. “You. But I can’t do this.” 

Mickey’s arm flies out and grips his. He talks through his teeth. “No,” he says. “No. You’re just mad right now. You don’t mean it.” His eyes fly around Ian’s face. He wants to hold him. “You want me to call him out here?” 

Ian pauses. “Why? You gonna tell him?” 

“No I’m not gonna–” Mickey says. He has the gall to sound bratty and exasperated, like he is about to speak to a small child. “I’m not gonna _tell_ him, but I’ll ream him out for you.” 

Ian shakes his head. “That’s not good enough for me.” 

Mickey pushes him, then, and Ian wasn’t ready for it. He loses his footing. Ian pushes him back. 

“Go home,” Mickey says. “You’re tired. You aint thinkin’ straight.” 

Ian pushes him harder. “Don’t you fucking talk to me like that.” 

“Yeah? Like what?” 

“Like I’m–” Ian’s throat is tight. “Like I’m…” He covers his face with his hands. Stop. Stop sign. 

They don’t speak. When Ian drops his hands, he sees Mickey looking at him, all soft stare and parted lips. 

Ian shrugs. “I gotta go, I guess.” He looks in Mickey’s eyes. He waits. Waits for something. Maybe an apology. Maybe a promise. Nothing comes. 

“This isn’t over,” Mickey says suddenly. “You hear me? You can’t do this.” 

Ian shakes his head slowly. “I can,” he says quietly. “I did.” 

He doesn’t wait. Doesn’t look at Mickey. He only turns, only turns and walks. He half-expects Mickey to run up, punch him in the back, push him to the ground. But there’s nothing. Just his feet, moving one after the other. He watches them, watches his feet move, and he can’t feel them, can’t feel the ground. But they carry him away, away from all of it, and he doesn’t look back. 

*

He sets the gallon of paint on the counter and shakes the tray and paint roller out of the plastic bag. Fuck. He forgot that little tool to pull the lid off. He heads to his tool bucket and pokes around. He’s moving so fast he gets scratched on the arm by a stray phillip’s head screwdriver. He hisses. It isn’t bleeding really, just red. Stupid. He should know better than to just throw things in there. 

A putty knife works just as well, and with little effort, the lid comes off. He gives it another stir with the wood stick and pours some onto the tray and into the little hand-held bucket. He pulls out the stepstool and stands on it. He reaches up. 

Fuck. He’s not tall enough. 

It’s funny. For once in his life, he’s not tall enough. He groans. Shit. 

Sully isn’t due to come over for a few more hours, but maybe he can swing a ladder by. He sends off a text and sure enough, he’ll bring one over. 

He sets the paint stuff down and lays back on the bed. His eyes find that place - that place on the ceiling. He’s grown to hate it. Mistake. A mistake no one bothered to fix. He’s sick of looking at it, sick of running over that mistake over and over in his mind. 

He breathes out slowly. His eyes blink hard, trying to blink the tears away, but they still come. 

Did he make a mistake? 

He shakes his head. He can’t think. He doesn’t know. _You can’t do this._ He turns over on his stomach. He can still smell Mickey on his skin. He wants him, still. He buries his face into the pillow, testing how long he can stay there without having to lift up to breathe. 

The knock is soft, and for a minute Ian thinks–no, he knows–it’s Mickey. He springs out of bed and throws open the door. 

No. It’s a metal ladder balanced by Sully’s strong arm. “Sup,” he says. “Grab this.” 

Ian takes the front and walks it backward into the apartment. ‘Thanks for bringing it by.” 

“Sure,” Sully says. He lets the bottom go and Ian opens it up with a scraping sound. “What’re you doing?” 

Ian gestures to the ceiling. “I gotta paint the ceiling. There’s this one spot that drives me nuts every time I lie down. Just got sick of it.” 

“That’s what a landlord is for, dude.” 

Ian shrugs. “My landlord isn’t going to re-paint a ceiling. It’s not like it’s going to take that long anyway.” 

Sully heads for the fridge and pulls out a beer. “You want my help or can I just sit here lookin’ pretty?” 

Ian chuckles, pushing aside the pain in his throat. “Whatever you want, gorgeous.” 

Sully twists the cap off the beer and takes a drink. “Hey, if I ask you something will you promise not to punch me in the face?” 

“No guarantees, but go ahead.” 

“Everything okay? This doesn’t seem like you.” 

Ian puts down a tarp and sets the ladder on top. He gathers his painting supplies and starts getting ready. He’s going to start with that place he always sees. Erase it all. Start fresh. 

“I think I broke up with Mickey,” he says finally. He gently moves the roller against the ceiling. “I mean, I did.” 

“Shit, why?” 

“He wants to stay closeted. I thought he was starting to change, but I guess not. This guy at work knew. His sister, my family, you. He’s fucking,” he takes a deep breath and adds more paint to the roller. “I mean, he’s fucking held onto my hand, and my arm, in public. But this one asshole at the site starts saying shit and he just denies it all.” 

“Who?” 

“Who what?” 

Sully sets the bottle down again. “Who’s the guy? At the site?” 

“Danny,” Ian says. “Remember him?” 

“Wait,” Sully says. He coughs out a laugh. “You’re talking about _Danny?_ Fuck him, man. He doesn’t even count. He’s a dick to everybody.” 

“What?” Ian steps off the ladder. Not him. Not Sully, too. “What the fuck? You’re on his side, then?” 

“Woah,” Sully says, standing up. He puts his hands up. “Dial it back. It’s good. Okay? I just meant maybe you should give Mickey a little rope on this one. What did he say exactly?” 

Ian shifts from foot to foot. He can feel them, finally. “Mick or Danny?” 

“Mickey.” 

“He said, ‘I’m not gay. We’re not boyfriends. He’s gay, but that’s fine.’ Something like that.”

Sully reaches out and yanks on his arm. “He hurt your feelings then, huh?” 

“It’s not funny.” 

“I know,” he says. “I’m not laughing. Sounds really shitty. I’m sorry.” 

Ian slides into the other chair and put his forehead on the table. “I can’t be with someone like that. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. I’m not. You know. Something to be ashamed of.” He swallows almost convulsively around the rising lump in his throat. 

He feels Sully’s hand on his back. He rubs it back and forth slowly, and it comforts him. He doesn’t think about it. His eyes well up with tears. His forehead rests on the table, and he watches the tears fall. They are so close up, like he’s back to that camera tightly focused. He sniffs hard, but he can feel his tears coming faster. 

“Aw, man,” Sully says. He rubs against his back a little harder. “It’s gonna be okay.” 

Ian shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s over.” 

“Hey,” Sully says. “Look up here a sec. Don’t be a dumbass. Look.” 

Ian sits up again, wiping his eyes with the back of his arm. “What?” 

“You can fix it,” he says. “Do you wanna be with him?” 

Ian nods. “But not if he’s gonna be closeted forever.” 

Sully stands up with a sigh. He comes back with a beer and a glass of water. “Take your pick,” he says, gesturing to the drinks. 

“Share with me,” Ian mumbles. 

“Gladly,” Sully says, taking the cap off and passing it over. “Look,” he says. “I think you should give him a shot. He’ll get there. Don’t go all hard on him about it.” Ian begins to speak, but Sully cuts him off. “Listen,” he says. “Listen to what I am saying. Listen to the words coming out of my mouth. Shh.” 

Ian nods. He starts to lower his head, but Sully pulls on his shirt and goes “Nope.” 

“What should I do?” Ian’s voice is small. He’s so tired.

“Let’s hurry up and paint this ceiling,” Sully says, taking a long drink of the beer. “Then you clean up and you go over there and say you fucked up.” 

“But he–” 

Sully dramatically bangs the table. “No. There’s no ‘but he.’ It’s ‘but you.’” He pauses, “I mean ‘I,’ not ‘you.’ Whatever. You know what I’m saying. No buts.” He cracks a smile. “Except, you know, the other kind of butts.” 

Ian laughs. “Fuck you.” 

“No thanks. I appreciate the interest though. Always.” 

Ian grins and drinks some of the beer. He stands up. “Okay, let’s do this.” 

“Gimme that,” Sully says, pointing at the painter’s tape. “You weren’t even gonna tape? I thought you wanted to make things better, not worse.” 

Ian throws it at him. “Thanks,” he says. 

“Thank me when you get it in again,” he says, mumbling around the tape in his mouth, ripping some off. “I’ll write an advice column.” 

* 

He has paint on his clothes, and probably paint in his hair. It doesn’t matter. He doesn’t want to wait anymore. He runs down the stairs of the el station and heads toward Mickey’s house. Fuck. What if he’s gone? What if he’s drunk? What if he tells him to get out? He’d deserve it, wouldn’t he? But what if–what if–

He bangs on the door. Bangs louder. He realizes how short of breath he is. Winded, even. 

Mickey swings open the door, cigarette in his mouth, scowling. “What the fuck?” 

“I...I need to see you.” 

Mickey takes the cigarette out of his mouth, slowly. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step away from the door. 

“Please,” Ian says, softly. 

Mickey puts the cigarette back in his mouth and turns away, leaving the door open, walking away, headed toward his room. 

Ian shuts the door behind him and glances around. No Mandy. No Iggy. 

Mickey sits on his bed, back to him, staring out the window. The smoke lifts around him. “What is it.” 

“I’m,” he says. “I don’t know. I just needed to see you.” 

“Not really a good time.” 

He looks around the room. “Why? What are you doing?” 

Mickey shrugs. If he would turn, just turn, Ian would know. Know how he felt, what he wanted. “Thought you said we were done.” 

“I got scared,” Ian says. Mickey doesn’t say anything back, so he keeps going. “I don’t want...I don’t want you to be, like, embarrassed of being with me. Like, if it’s a closet thing, that’s one thing. But if it’s more than that, if you don’t want people to know it’s _me_ , that’s another thing. And I guess I don’t know which, you know, is the bigger thing.” 

Mickey doesn’t turn. His head bends and he looks in his lap. 

“And I guess…” Ian says, voice getting tight. “I guess I wanted to just see…” 

Mickey slowly stands up. He reaches over and stubs out his cigarette. 

“I wanted to see what you thought about that,” Ian said. “About me.” 

Mickey walks over, slowly. Ian sees his eyes are damp. Mickey shakes his head gently. 

“And I’m sorry that,” Ian says, voice tighter still. “I forget this is new to you. I over-reacted, I know that. But I don’t want to hide with you. I’m so happy with you, Mick. I love–”

His mouth is soft and slow. Ian has never been kissed this gently. Tears are in his eyes, and Mickey’s, and their mouths move like they are holding glass, like they are those soft brushes gliding against paint, like the inky glide of pen to paper, the sound of a hand sliding down someone’s back. 

Mickey guides him down to the mattress, and it’s not like he’s being pressed down or anything.Mickey is floating, almost, on top of him. There’s that gentleness, a tenderness so pure it almost makes him burst. He sucks on Mickey’s lip, and there’s a small sound when he does, so he pulls a little more. Mickey’s tongue is in his mouth, and Ian can feel the wetness on Mickey’s face when his hand comes up to hold his cheek. 

Mickey’s arms rest on either side of Ian’s body, but he lifts his hand to tug lightly at Ian’s shirt. He quickly bends up to pull it off, and as soon as he lies back, Mickey begins to kiss his chest. Ian breathes harder, and then Mickey’s mouth begins to move over, in small increments, to his upper arm, those lines, that dark, secret history. He kisses there, then looks up at Ian. 

“How come you’ve never said anything?” Ian whispers.

Mickey moves his thumb against them gently. “Didn’t know what you wanted me to say.”

Ian closes his eyes. He can still feel Mickey’s thumb. “I wish they weren’t there,” he says. “Wish you didn’t have to see ‘em.” 

“It’s okay,” Mickey murmurs. “You aint doin’ it anymore. Right?” 

Ian hesitates. “I thought about it,” he says. There’s no reason to hide this. “But I didn’t do it.” 

“Then it’s okay. You’re okay. Got it?” 

Ian nods. They kiss. They kiss and they kiss, the speed changing, but still soft. So soft. Mickey guides it all. His palms are rough and callused from work, and when they smooth over Ian’s body, goosebumps follow in their wake. Ian’s jeans slip right off, and his hips twist in Mickey’s hands as his mouth takes Ian in.

Mickey’s hair is soft, smells like shampoo and cigarettes, and Ian’s fingers slide there, holding just the slightest bit. Ian closes his eyes and opens them again, slowly. He doesn’t last long. He sees Mickey’s hand moving against himself, but there is still time after Ian comes, and he pulls Mickey up, meets his hand, sliding, stroking. He holds onto him tight as he arches, kissing him as he falls back down. They roll apart. Mickey wipes up with a shirt from the floor. His arm raises up and pulls Ian close. They breathe.

“I just need a little time,” Mickey says quietly. “I’m trying. I swear.” 

“I know you are,” Ian says back. He swallows. "I am too." 

The water stain on the ceiling is old. Mickey said he patched the leak once, but the mark stays. It’s dark in the middle, and spreads out like a bruise, edges blurred and uneven. Someday he’ll help Mickey. Fix the ceiling, then paint it over, just like he did with his apartment. It’s comforting to know that he won’t ever see that awkward place anymore, that little mistake he can’t forget. It doesn’t matter. Mickey’s ceiling is stained, too. But it isn’t moving. It is steady. Still. It is as still as the warm air around them, almost visible, almost sweet with sweat.


	14. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are all sorts of plans, and these are theirs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My dear friends, we have come to the end of this story. I gave you a nice long one. I want to thank everyone for their support, comments, kudos, friendship. I loved writing this story for you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

The realtor’s skin is tight, frozen a little around the eyes and mouth. Botox, probably. Ian has seen it in a few of them, now. They always use words like “your” when they walk around the Emerald house. 

She gestures around the room. “So here is your great room, and as we pass through to your kitchen, make sure to take note of the original woodwork.” 

Ian motions for Jamal to get away from the doorway. The appliances were put in place, and Ian just has to check Jamal’s outlets on the countertop and then he’s almost finished. 

“This is your great room fireplace,” she says as Ian walks by quietly. He pulls a piece of paper out of his pocket. A checklist. He sees Mickey by the plans and decides it’s a good excuse. 

“Hi,” he says quietly. He chances smoothing the paper out next to Mickey’s hand, and although Mickey shifts away a little, Ian can see him smiling. 

“Hey,” Mickey says, just as quietly. Ian grins as he turns back to watch the realtor give her speech. She’s more determined than the other two who have come by today. She’s eager to make a sale. Confident.

“Are the fireplaces functional?” The woman asks. Mid-twenties, if Ian had to guess. She has square-shaped black glasses, hair dyed that purple-y red. 

Her hair reminds him of when he dyed his hair darker, that year, that year on the box at the Fairy Tail. That haircut, too. Why did he do that? He doesn’t remember why. He remembers swiping a box at a drugstore. That’s all he remembers about that. After the hospital, that first hospital, he remembers himself looking into the mirror at home. He looked down and saw the toothpaste splatters in sink. Debbie’s hairbrush by the faucet, which he accidentally knocked down as he reached for the scissors. He remembers looking down at the blades for a minute. Probably a solid minute. But he didn’t want them for that. His head was still fuzzy, hands shaky, tired. So tired. He began to cut his hair, big clumps falling into the sink. His arms got tired, so he stopped. He stumbled back and into his room. He was about to lay down when Carl walked in. 

“What did you do to your hair?” he asked. 

“Huh,” Ian said. He didn’t have the words. He was so tired. Always so tired. But Carl walked over and sat on the bed. 

“It looks bad,” Carl said. 

“Don’t care,” Ian said into the pillow. “M’ tired.” 

Carl got up and left the room. Ian was drifting off before he heard the buzzing, the buzzing next to his ear. He meant to say something, to pull away, but then he felt it. The electric razor sliding against his head. It felt good, like someone running a hand over his head. He felt Carl’s hand pushing him gently toward the wall, dragging the razor against his head again. He felt a pulling at his neck. “Sit up,” Carl said. 

Ian felt the weight on him, the medicine holding him down. It would get better, the doctor said. You’ll get used to it, she said. You just have to get through this adjustment period, she said. 

“I can’t,” Ian said. 

He heard the buzz continue, held out, into the air. It shut off. 

“Here,” Carl said. Ian could feel his hand slide under his neck, pull him up slowly. “C’mon, you can do it.” 

Ian could. He felt himself being lifted, Carl’s arm on his back, tipping him forward against his shoulder. Ian rested there, breathing out. His breath shook. He was startled that he felt he was going to cry. He didn’t remember being able to cry. He didn’t think it was possible anymore. 

_When did Carl get this strong? When did he get old like this, letting Ian’s body fall forward, holding him up?_ Ian felt the razor on the back of his head, felt Carl’s other arm rise up, holding his ear back so he could cut the hair around it. The buzz stopped again, and Carl’s hand rubbed around on his head, checking for uneven places. Ian could feel his fingers, the lightness on this head. It felt good. Clean. He didn’t know what it looked like. He never had it that short, not even playing Army. There was almost nothing left. It was all gone, and there was something very good about that. Freeing. A little death, a lightness. 

Carl let go of him. Ian began to fall back, but Carl caught him again. “Should take your shirt off. It’s all over it. And your bed.” 

Ian did as he was told. He leaned back and pulled the shirt off. “Thanks,” he said quietly. 

Carl nodded. “You shouldn’t sleep here,” he said. “There’s hair all over. You can sleep in my bed if you want.” 

Ian stared at him again. “Thank you.” 

“Sure,” Carl said, shrugging. Ian wanted to say something else, but Carl left the room like nothing had happened. Ian managed to climb up into his bed and dragged his hand over his buzzed hair until he fell asleep. Soft. It was soft, just like the sleep that was pressing down on him. Safe.

He shakes the memory off. He drags a hand over his head. His hair is longer, now. Not at all that long again. His hair is the color it’s supposed to be. 

“The fireplaces are not functional as of yet,” the realtor says. The man is young, too. Beard and a flannel shirt. Hipsters. Money. “But they could easily be converted to gas. You will see you have four fireplaces in this home. Two with the original mantles, but you could easily add them on to the others if you wish.

“That one looks good like it is, babe,” The man says to the purple-red haired woman, pointing out the large one in the room. “That brick.” 

The woman drops her voice a little. She shifts from foot to foot. “And the, you know, neighborhood is okay?” 

Ian hears Mickey stifle a little laugh, one that Ian has to fight sharing. 

The realtor doesn’t hesitate. Not like that other one today, with the fake pearls and soft voice. “It’s an up and coming neighborhood,” she says. 

“Coming up from where?” Mickey says under his breath, and Ian grins, shifting his eyes sideways to find him, eyebrows raised. 

“Revitalizing,” The realtor says. "This is a very good time to buy in this area."

“Gentrified,” Ian says quietly. “Why don’t they just say it?” 

“Cause we’re here,” Mickey says. “Don’t wanna rile up the local thugs.” 

Ian can see the woman watching them, nervous. 

“Let’s go see the upstairs. We have your master bed and bath, your three other bedrooms and half bath.” 

“I hate that fucking bathroom,” Mickey mumbles. 

“Same here,” Ian says. 

The realtor points out the couple’s newel post, the couple’s stairs, their window on the landing, the window with replacement vinyl. “Energy efficient, obviously,” she says proudly. 

At this point, they can tell when a potential buyer is interested at all. Some slide through quickly. Some don’t like brick. Some are obviously afraid of the neighborhood and aren’t even going to consider it. Some say - no joke - that the house is too small. That’s the one that gets them both every time. _Should I tell them about sharing a room with three brothers yet or no,_ Ian joked, once. 

“Okay, look,” Ian says. “I’m mostly done. I just checked in with Jamal, so I’m gonna get out of here. Kowalski said he wants me to come back Thursday and do the final walk-through. I might have to grab my stuff Friday though, if you can drive me home. I won’t have the van on Thursday. But Kowalski says I’m out.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, he told me. We’re all gonna be out next week. Sanders are comin’ Monday.” 

“No shit?” Ian looks at the plans again. “Man. Can’t believe it’s over already.” 

“Already?” Mickey jokes. “It’s September.” 

Ian shrugs. “Just barely,” he says. “What, you’re complaining about the cooler days?” 

“Heh,” Mickey says. “Thought you were leavin.” 

“What, you wanna watch my ass when I walk away?” 

Mickey’s eyes dart around before he does that thing. That thing where he drags his eyes up and down, like he’s just barely holding back from grabbing him. “Basically,” he says. 

Ian raises an eyebrow. “Enjoy,” he says. He makes a show of clenching his arm as he reaches across Mickey’s table for a pencil. He drags it over Mickey’s knuckles before dropping it and backing up, turning around, walking away. He hears the realtor talking as she walks down the stairs. He looks over his shoulder at the doorway, catches Mickey grinning. He sighs into the air, digging out his keys for Bowman’s van. He turns back to the house. He can’t believe how good it looks. Some landscape company came in, even. New sod. Mulch. Rock. Rose bush. Rhododendrons. Lilac lining the side of the house. Some sort of tree in the front yard that Ian can’t remember the name of, small and staked down. The large oak tree in the adjacent lot has paleing leaves, soon to glow yellow or orange. Soon there will be that smell in the air. Ian loves that smell almost as much as he loves the smell of Mickey. He huffs a laugh at the thought. 

The stairs where Ian and Mickey sat that first day were fixed. He wasn’t there the day it was all smashed out, but they look good now. He can’t believe that this all happened. That it looked that bad. That it looks this good, now. He can’t believe it. Can’t believe that on that first day, that day he met Mickey, was the start of this. All of this. 

The door is still open, and he sees the realtor come out with the couple. The man is smiling as Mickey follows them out. They are talking, saying something Ian can’t hear. He feels a sudden pang of jealousy, which makes no sense at all, but it’s there all the same. He’s a handsome man. Ian watches Mickey shake the man’s hand, watches it linger for a split second before Mickey laughs. Ian’s teeth clench. The woman gives a wave and they head for the realtor’s car. Mickey watches them go, and as his eyes draw back, he sees Ian. 

“Don’t give me the chin, stupid,” Mickey says, walking closer. “Relax. They’re into it. They’re comin’ back tomorrow. I think we got the buyers.” 

Ian smiles. It’s done. It’s almost done. “I’ll see you later. Got cards, but you wanna come by after?” 

“I gotta help Iggy with some stuff,” he says. Ian is about to start talking, interrupt, but Mickey beats him to it. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’ll be quick. It’s not–it’s not gonna be a big deal.” 

Ian breathes out. “Will you, you know, call at least?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah I can do that. Told ya I’d start doing that shit. I can stay on a leash for ya.” 

Ian raises an eyebrow. “A leash, huh?” 

Mickey turns red, just a little. “Not like that. Didn’t mean it like that, Jesus.” 

“Okay,” Ian says, grinning. “If you say so.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Thought you were leavin.” 

Ian jangles his keys. “Call me later,” he says again. 

“I will. Relax.” 

Ian slams his van door shut and starts the engine. When he looks over, McGinley and Danny are coming out of the house. He pulls away from the curb quickly. He doesn’t know why. Doesn’t know why he accelerates so much as he rounds the corner. He has nothing to be afraid of. He has nothing to hide. 

But he does. He forgets he does. He has to hide the most beautiful thing. Mickey says to give him time. He will give him time. But it’s hard to hide. It’s getting harder and harder to hide. He wants to be patient. He does. He will. He will. For Mickey. It’s for Mickey, he tells himself, over and over. But Mickey is getting more and more relaxed the longer this goes on. At the site? He’s getting careless, almost. Too careless. _Maybe he –_ Ian thinks, but he shakes the thought off. It’s not forever, Mickey says. He’ll get there. They’ll get there. Someday. 

That will be a great day. He slows down as the traffic light turns yellow. He’d accelerate through it, push past it on another day. But he’ll slow down. He’ll wait. 

He’ll wait. 

*  
“There’s nacho cheese Dorito slime on my cards,” Ian says. “This is not my problem.” 

Sully barks out a laugh. “They’re your cards.” 

“Your Doritos.” 

“What, you want to quit already?” Sully says, tipping his beer bottle to his lips. “You’re losing, so you’ll make up any excuse.” 

Ian shakes his head. “I could make a comeback any minute. You never know.” He stands up, heads to the kitchen for a wet paper towel. “Here,” he says. “Wipe your fingers at least.” 

Sully takes it with an eyeroll. “I already wiped them on my pants.” 

“You sound like a child,” Ian says, smiling. 

“A child who is kicking your narrow ass at cards.” 

Ian raises an eyebrow, “So you’ve–”

“Shut it,” Sully says, laughing. “Besides, I like my asses big. You know that.” 

“How is she, by the way?” Ian asks. “I still don’t think she exists.” 

“She exists,” Sully says. “She’s just been working nights.” 

“I still wanna meet her,” Ian says. “She sounds nice.” He draws a card, shakes his head at the orange grease, wipes it on his pants. “Did she figure out what’s wrong with you yet?”

Sully kicks him. “She’s a _neonatal_ nurse, dumbass. Like, for newborn babies.” 

“That works,” Ian says. “You’re basically a baby.” He holds the orange card up. “Babies do this.”

Sully rolls his eyes before squinting at his cards. “Who’da thunk that we can get lucky just by workin’ these stupid construction jobs? I mean, you got Mickey cause of it, and I got Sarah. If I knew showin’ up at some hottie’s house, takin’ out a wall and building a new room was all it took to get a girlfriend, I woulda skipped high school.” 

“She liked watching you swing a hammer.” Ian says. “None of those doctors get covered with sweat and construction dust.” 

“It’s cause of _pheromones_ ,” Sully says. “She could smell me. My man stuff. That’s a turn on. I don’t smell like a hospital. Hospital smell isn’t sexy.” 

Ian shifts in his seat. He doesn’t know why it bothers him, sometimes. But it’s something about the word “smell” attached to it. His nose remembers it. Sometimes he smells it in the doctor’s office. He wonders if the smell is just the smell of crazy people. _Mentally ill, Ian. We don’t use words like crazy here._ He remembers the smell of the bedding, starchy and bleached. He remembers how we was finally allowed a top sheet after 24 hours. He remembers trying so hard to smell his smell on his pillow, on his skin. He sweat smelled different.

“Hey,” Sully says, and he’s quieter, his smile dropping. “Sorry, did I mess up with that, man?” Sully is so good. He is so lucky to have him. “I didn’t mean ta bring it up.” 

“It’s okay,” Ian waves off. “It’s not even the same hospital. It’s fine. She works in a hospital. That’s her job, I know that. That’s totally okay. Cool, even.” 

“Still,” Sully says. He looks down at his cards and grins. “Get ready to hate me.” 

“Fuck. Already?” 

Sully knocks on the table and lays down his run of cards. “Gin, bitch.” 

Ian groans. “Fine. Give me your cards. Let me split a beer with you.” 

“Ooh, gettin’ wild, Gallagher.” 

Ian stands up, holds the cards, follows Sully into the kitchen. He wets another towel and goes through the cards on the counter. Sully leans against it as he opens the beer, takes a swing, and offers it to Ian. 

“So it’s okay?” Sully says. “That I said hospital? Because you been mostly good for a while now. I didn’t think it would sound bad.”

Ian separates the stained cards from the clean ones. “Um,” he says. He feels like he always feels with Sully. Relaxed. Lucky he can tell the truth. “It’s okay, Sul. It is.” He opens and closes his mouth. “But,” he begins, and he watches Sully take a drink. “What do you mean by mostly? Do I seem, like have I seemed off?” 

Sully shrugs. “We still got our deal, right? I tell you if I see stuff?” 

Ian nods and takes the beer offered. “Have you seen stuff? I mean, I know we’ve been busy over the summer, but anything? Cause you know you can tell me, right? I mean, I might get embarrassed or something, but it’s important, you know?” 

“Yeah,” Sully says. “I know. Other than you being really torn up about Mickey bein’ out, you’ve been good. But you do seem like you’ve had some temper issues, honestly. But you’ve been workin’ two jobs. It’s hot out and Danny sucks, and you’ve been frustrated about shit. But overall, yeah. I think okay. Maybe just try and chill a little more?” 

Ian breathes out. “I’m trying.” It is embarrassing, even like this, this small amount. “It’s been hard to figure out what’s real. Not like, you know, psychosis real, but like what emotions, you know?” 

Sully nods. “It’s been a hard summer,” he says. “But also really fucking good, right?” 

“So good,” Ian says, smiling against the beer bottle before he takes a sip. “You’re right, though. I’ll just have to chill about Mickey coming out. He just needs some time. It’ll happen.” 

Sully nods. “And that’s good,” he says. “Good you can get like that. You’re not manic like that. With that you usually text me a lot or tell me I’m not playing my cards fast enough.” 

“Well,” Ian says, wiping the cards off again. “You _are_ pretty slow. That’s a fact.” 

“It is also a fact that you’re better,” Sully says, and Ian is startled by it, but in a nice way. A way that feels soothing. “And he knows about it and it’s not a deal-breaker. You’re not a deal-breaker. You just gotta be honest, man. Be honest about everything.” 

Ian nods. “I am,” he says, almost stuttering, almost like he did when he started meds. “I’m mostly honest,” he says. “I’m trying, you know, to just be honest.” The blade in the bathroom, he thinks. That razor in the bathroom. 

“Good,” Sully says. He hands the beer bottle to Ian and pulls out a new bottle, clinking the necks together. “Now whaddya want to play? Something you can win? Old Maid? Go Fish?” 

Ian gives him a shove toward the table. “You’re not half as funny as you think you are.” 

“Nah, you love me,” Sully says, laughing. “I’m your best friend in the whole fucking world.” 

“You are,” Ian says. “You are though.” 

“You too, dude. No doubt.” Sully says. He takes a long drink of beer and grabs the cards from Ian’s hands. “We’re fuckin’ awesome.” 

*

The sun is just barely up, but Mickey is panting hard into Ian’s neck, lips wet. “Fuck,” he pants “Oh fuck, like that. Like,” a wet gasp against Ian’s skin. “Oh, fuck, just like that.” His body begins to strain. “There,” he says. “Oh fuck, Ian, right there. There. Ah.” 

Ian’s arms shake as he holds them in place, and he hears himself talking, voice strong, just like Mickey likes when he’s like this, soft and chatty. “Yeah?” Ian says, voice low. “You like it right there? You gonna fuckin’ come?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey whines. He huffs as he tries to talk. “Wanna come on your fuckin’ dick. So fuckin’ big.” 

Ian wants to fall apart. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He cries out. “M’ gonna come. Right there. Gimme that big fuckin’ cock.” 

Ian speeds up, and Mickey pants so hard, grits his teeth with a groan, Every limb contracting. He touches himself but he’s already coming. Ian lets go, releasing hard. 

They breathe together. Ian lets out a breath that is almost a whistle. “I love when you talk dirty. Holy shit.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. He rubs at his forehead. “Yeah, you too. ‘S hot. Sometimes ya just gotta let it all that shit out.”

Ian chuckles. He turns on his side and kisses Mickey’s cheek, neck, shoulder. Three quick kisses right before he sits up. “We gotta get goin’,” he says. “I gotta hit up the doctor before Bowman.” 

“Fuck off,” Mickey says, still trying to catch his breath. “Don’t talk about work right now. Gimme like two minutes at least. Just two.” 

“No can do,” Ian says, climbing over Mickey, letting his sore and wobbling legs hit to floor. He reaches for the pillbox and tosses the white and the orange ones in his mouth, washing it down with the glass of water from last night. “I gotta get outta here.” 

Mickey rubs his face with the heels of his hands. “Can I just stay at least? Just for a little while?” 

Ian shrugs. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I got another key. Just hang on a sec. I think it’s…” he stops. “I’m giving you a key to my apartment. A key. We’re doing the key thing.”

Mickey sits up. He sighs. “It’s not like I’ll keep it. I’ll give it back tonight or somethin.’ Just gonna take a shower or whatever.” 

Ian leans back down, kissing Mickey quickly, then slower, just a little, before pulling back with another short kiss. “You can keep it,” he says. “I want you to keep it.” 

Mickey tosses it up and down with his hand. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Ian says. He heads for the bathroom, brushes his teeth, all of that. “I’m going to talk to my doctor about you,” he calls from the bathroom. “I mean, I did. But I think she wants to talk about you some more.”

“Yeah? Like what?” 

“Probably about how, like, we’re getting serious. You know.” He heads back into the room, and Mickey is sitting up, sheet over his lap, hair mussed up. Beautiful. “Is that okay?” 

“Yeah, sure,” Mickey says. “I mean, whatever you think’s gonna help, I guess.” 

“Okay,” Ian says. He looks around for his shoes. 

“Over there,” Mickey says, pointing to the kitchen with a grin. “You never put them back.” 

“Didn’t get a chance,” he says. “You’re the one who pulled my pants off.” 

Mickey stretches, smiles. “How 'bout if I come too?” 

“Come where?” 

“The doctor.” 

Ian opens and closes his mouth. “Why?” 

Mickey shrugs. “Just wanna know what it’s like in there. You know. ‘S not like I have to go in to see the doctor with ya, but maybe I could wait for ya.” 

Ian smiles slowly. “You just want to see crazy people,” he says. “Admit it.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “That aint funny. You know what I mean. I’m, you know, tryin’ to learn more about this stuff. You said I should.” 

There’s a twirl in Ian’s gut. Something between nausea and fear, an urge to explain it away, pretend he doesn’t have to go, after all. He could say he got the day wrong. He could call and cancel. Reschedule. Whatever. But even though his stomach says no, says don’t do it, says hide, he opens his mouth. 

“Okay,” he says. “You can. I’m not sure if you can, you know, come back there with me, but you can come.” 

Mickey nods. “Good.” He puts a cigarette in his mouth, one he won’t light until they’re out on the sidewalk, but he wears it as an accessory as he pulls on his clothes. He doesn’t say anything else. 

*

Ian hopes it isn’t a day like when that lady slapped herself in the face. He hopes it isn’t like when he showed up manic with Amanda. But he can’t help it. He can't control it. He knows it doesn’t matter what he wants. Because all of this, all of the sickness, the illness, these brains, are what they are. Not broken, the doctor says. Just need a little help, she says. You’re doing great, she says. He is starting to believe her. 

He leads Mickey down the hallway. “Okay,” he says. “Remember, if someone is talking to themselves or acting weird, just relax, okay? Don’t stare. They won’t hurt you. They’re just in psychosis, okay? And they’re gonna get help. But sometimes if we’re like that, we might feel kinda jumpy. So just read a magazine or something, okay?” 

Mickey nods. Ian opens the door. Nothing happens. No alarm. No one shouting at a wall. No confetti falls from the ceiling or anything. It’s like any other time. People playing on their phones. Reading old People magazines. A door opening, calling for someone. He checks in and sits down. 

Ian rubs his hands on his pants. “I don’t know why I feel so nervous,” he says. “I’m not like this anymore. I know what to expect.” 

Mickey looks like he’s going to take his hand, but he doesn’t. “Cause I’m here. Right?” 

Ian shrugs. “What do you think so far?” 

Mickey looks around. “Just looks like a doctor’s office to me.” 

Ian is quiet. His leg bounces. He wants the nerves to leave. He rubs his hands up and down his pants. Suddenly, slowly, Mickey’s hand reaches over, takes his. Ian almost jumps with surprise, and when he turns toward him, Mickey’s eyes say everything he could think of. “Thanks,” he breathes. 

When the nurse calls his name, Mickey lets his arm go. He’s picking up a magazine when Ian turns back. “Can my boyfriend come back?” he asks. 

Mickey’s head jerks up, and he doesn’t know if it’s because of the word boyfriend or if he’s just been invited behind the curtain. 

“Of course,” she says, and steps aside. 

Mickey’s eyes dart around the hall, and when they are directed into a room, Mickey doesn’t know where to sit. Ian gestures to the chair near the pastel painting of a nature scene. Mickey looks grateful, and sits down. Ian sits next to him. “They just ask questions now,” he says under his breath. 

The questions begin. Any hallucinations? Delusions? How’s your memory? Concentration? Sleep? Medication compliant? Any homicidal thoughts? He sneaks a look at Mickey. His mouth is open, just slightly, eyes still pinballing around the room. The nurse types. What about suicidal thoughts?

 _Here it comes_ he thinks. “No,” he says. 

What about self-harm? Cutting, burning? 

“I-” Ian begins. He swallows. “Yes. I mean no,” he panics. “I mean no, I didn’t. But I wanted to. Almost did.” He feels more than sees Mickey sit up in his chair. “I mean, but I didn’t. I just got, you know, close.” 

Got close to which? The nurse asks. Her typing pauses. Cutting or burning? 

“Um,” Ian says. His throat is tight. “Cut-cutting. Not burning.” 

Was there something that precipitated that urge? 

“Um,” Ian says. He looks at Mickey. Mickey’s face begins to fall. His tongue sweeps into his cheek. “Um, I don’t know.” 

Do you just not know or you’d like to talk about this in private?

Ian sighs. “I just–” he says. “I only want to talk about that with Dr. Turi, if that’s okay.” 

That’s fine, she says. Okay, Ian. I’ll go see if she’s ready. 

The door closes softly. He can hear the nurse talking in the hall. 

“Ian, what the fuck,” Mickey says. It’s not angry. It’s hurt. Sad, even. 

Ian blinks hard. “I wanted to tell you,” he said. “I tried to tell you. I just didn’t want to freak you out. I wanted to–” 

The door swings open. “Hello Ian,” Dr Turi says with a smile. She smiles wider when she sees Mickey. “And who is our guest today?” 

Mickey stands up, only a little awkward, and extends his hand. Ian tries to catch up. “This is my boyfriend,” he says. “This is Mickey.” 

Dr. Turi shakes his hand and gestures to the hallway. “Let’s go to my office, shall we?” 

Ian shouldn’t be so comforted by her messy office, but he is every time. She moves the big bottle of coconut water out of the way and leans back. She folds her arms. “So what’s this I hear about a self-injury slip?” 

Her directness is also comforting, in its way. “I didn’t,” he says. “I didn’t though.” 

“But you wanted to.” 

“Yeah,” Ian says, sneaking a glance at Mickey again. He is looking at the floor. “But - but I didn’t. It was over pretty fast. I didn’t. I haven’t wanted to after that.” He turns to look at Mickey. “I haven’t Mick, I swear.” 

“Ian,” Dr Turi says soothingly. “It’s all right. Take a breath. Let’s just go slow.” 

Ian clenches his teeth. Flight. Flight. “Okay,” he says. 

“What was your trigger?” Dr. Turi’s arms drop and she leans forward again. “Walk me through it.” 

Why did he invite Mickey back here? Why did he do this? His brain must have told him. Convinced him. So stupid. “It was nothing,” he says. “I just thought about it. That’s all.” 

“What did you think of, exactly.” 

Ian twists in his seat. “You know what. A cut, or whatever.” 

“Cutting yourself?” 

“But I _didn’t_ , Ian says again. His leg bounces. 

“What did you want to use?” Her eyes are kind, but firm. 

“I didn’t want,” he says. Ian can feel his words, himself, flail. “I mean, I did what you said. I didn't choose something I could keep for, you know, just that. Like a special thing just for that. I had my leatherman knife in the glovebox. I didn’t use it.”

“So what did you use, Ian?” 

“I didn’t,” he says, desperate. “I didn’t use anything. 

Her voice is soft. “Where were you when you were thinking of this, Ian?” 

He looks at Mickey. Mickey gives the smallest nod. He crosses his arms. “I was driving,” he begins. “I was working, and I was thinking about it when I was driving, and then all of a sudden I end up in a gas station bathroom.” 

“Okay,” Dr. Turi says. “What was in your hand?” 

“A razor.” 

Mickey’s breath is shaky. He can hear it. 

“And then what?” 

“I took my shirt off,” he says quietly. 

“What was in your hand?” 

Ian looks over at Mickey, who is clenching his arms, looking at the floor. He swallows. “A razor, I said.” 

“A blade?” 

Ian’s arm remembers it all. Every time. His arm doesn’t lie. It can’t. “A–a thing. Like the head of a razor? One of those plastic ones. I cracked the handle off.” 

“Then what?” 

He swallows hard. “I put it by my arm,” he says. “But then I looked at myself in the mirror. Then I threw it in the garbage. And I threw up.” He looks at Mickey again. “I didn’t do it,” he says, as much to him as to her. “I swear.” 

“Is this true?” Dr. Turi is talking to Mickey, now. “Have you seen any marks on him?” 

Mickey shakes his head slowly. No. “No,” he says. “I didn’t see any. Any new ones, I guess.” 

“So what is this, then,” Dr. Turi says. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.” 

Ian leans forward, lets his fingertips slide against his eyebrows. “I was worried about something,” he said. “Something I shouldn’t have been worried about. It was stupid. I was stupid. I over-reacted.” 

There is a silence. 

“Ian,” Mickey says, suddenly. “This about that day with,” he stutters. “The-the-the phone? And me leavin’? This that day?” Ian shakes his head, but doesn’t come up. “Ian,” Mickey says. 

Ian sniffs hard. “It was,” he says into his hands. “It was that day. I’m sorry.” 

Mickey stands up. “Fuck,” he says under his breath. He doesn’t apologize for his language. Ian can see him begin to pace. 

“Let’s talk about this,” Dr. Turi says. “Sit down, please.” 

Mickey does. Ian is about to stand up himself, burst out the door. Alone. Because Mickey doesn’t want this. Mickey doesn’t want him. Mickey doesn’t–

But his hand finds Ian’s hand. “Okay,” he says. “Yeah, just talk about it. We at the doctor, right? So teach me about it. Cause I can’t have us not talk about this shit and then learn that you almost sliced yourself up in a fuckin’ gas station bathroom.” His jaw shifts. “ Cause of me. What I did.” 

“It wasn’t because of you,” Ian says, holding his hand tighter. “Not really. It’s cause I’m, you, know, because I have this.” 

Dr. Turi nods. “And we need to take that weight off him, Ian. Because as you just implied, it isn’t really about Mickey, right?” Ian nods. “His behavior or expressing feelings about your relationship can’t hold that much weight, because it isn’t the whole truth.” Ian tries to interrupt, say _I know, I know, but what about_ but Dr. Turi keeps going. “Relationship issues can be a dangerous trigger. It can be hard to feel stress in a realationship that is built on mutual trust, respect, and vulnerability. Do you see what I’m saying?” She looks from Ian to Mickey to back again. They nod.

“But you need to _communicate_ , Dr. Turi says. “This is your first relationship after diagnosis, I believe?” 

Ian nods. “Yeah, the first,” he mumbles. “Kind of first real one, too, yeah.” 

“Okay,” Dr. Turi says. “What about you, Mickey?” 

“I never got like this with anybody else,” he says simply. Succinctly. 

Dr. Turi nods. “Okay,” she says, determined. “Okay, here’s what we need to do. Ian? I want you to remember that thing we talked about when you made your suicide and self-harm contract. We–” 

Mickey sits up straighter. “Wait, what the–? What’s a suicide and self..whaddya..harm contract?” 

“It’s for prevention,” Ian says quietly. “It’s like a deal that I won’t do it, and what I’ll do instead. A plan.” 

Dr. Turi nods. “Okay,” she says. “Do you remember when we talked about your brain lying?” Ian nods. “This is a perfect example. Instead of jumping to conclusions about what Mickey might be feeling or thinking, try and talk about it instead. Give your brain something else to do. Does that sound like something that could work?” 

Ian hesitates. “As long as he can do it, too. Tell me where he’s going and stuff if I’m worried.” 

“Yeah,” Mickey says fast. “Yeah, I know. Said I will. I will, okay?” 

They meet each other’s eyes, but don’t back away. 

“This isn’t something that will happen after every disagreement, either. That urge, that trigger. With practice you can gain perspective, as long as that communication is there. When you feel triggered in an argument or afterward, you can get through it as long as you communicate, and remember that the illness, the brain, is lying. I know it can be hard to keep that in mind, but it’s important you get through these moments with clarity so you don’t need to feel the strong urge to self-injure afterward.”

“Yeah,” Mickey says quietly. “Yeah, I don’t want you to do that.” He takes a breath. “Please.” 

Dr. Turi nods. “Mickey wants to support you,” she says. “Otherwise he wouldn’t be here. Is that a correct assumption, Mickey?” 

“Yeah,” he says quickly. “Yes.”

“This is new to him, Ian. Let’s see if you can break this into pieces. He wants to learn about this. He’s not going anywhere right now. Just be honest. And you,” she gestures to Mickey. “You can ask questions, okay?” Mickey nods. 

Ian holds onto Mickey’s hand tighter. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, I’ll be honest. Let me start over.” He swallows hard, and turns toward Mickey. He opens his mouth. 

*

The toy squeaks when he sits down. He digs it out and squeaks it again, this time in front of its intended audience. Ruby kicks her legs and smiles big. Ian can see it.

“She’s getting a tooth?” 

“Yeah,” Amanda calls from the kitchen. “My mom said I cut teeth early, too. I already had one when they bought me.” 

Ian chuckles. “Well I like your tooth,” he says to Ruby. “Yes I do! I think it looks very nice with all that drool. You look great.” 

“So what happened then? Did it go okay?” Amanda is digging in the fridge for something. “Or did he freak?” 

“He actually,” Ian says, mopping up Ruby’s drool with a bib. “It actually made things better kinda? I mean, he didn’t seem very surprised after the shock about that razor wore off. He–”

“Still mad about that, by the way,” Amanda says. She comes over with a bag of carrots and some hummus. “You went against our plan.” 

Ian reaches for a carrot. “I know,” he says. “I know I did. But it’s over now. I’m moving on.” 

Amanda’s hand finds his arm. “We just love you, Ian. You know that, right?” 

“I know,” he says softly. ‘I know.” 

“Good,” she says. She bites a carrot and reaches for Ruby’s fist. She still holds fast to her fingers. 

He watches her eat that carrot, look down at her baby - at Lip’s baby - and laugh. She’s beautiful, and strong, and so kind. “I love you,” he says. “I really do.” 

She grins, reaches out to tousle his hair. “I love you too. I’m glad you’re around. Still around, I mean.” 

Ruby kicks her feet and squeals, and Ian reaches for her fist. She fights to bring it to her mouth, bite it. He’s so lucky to be sitting here. So happy to be sitting here. “She’s so strong,” he says. “Look at her.” He laughs when she bites on his knuckle. “She sure knows what she wants.” 

Amanda laughs. “I’m gonna keep her I guess.” 

* 

They’re buying it. The couple with the lady with the purple-red hair and the guy with the beard. There’s a “Under Contract” sign attached to the For Sale sign in the yard. It’s the first thing he sees when he walks up to the house to collect all his stuff. 

McGinley’s standing at the front when he comes up. He claps Ian on the back. “Sold, huh?” 

“Wow,” Ian says. “What else are you doing? When are we out? I already did my walk-through so I’m just grabbing my shit.” 

“Going over the floors,” he says. Sanded em down already. We didn’t even wait until Monday. So I’m just looking for fuck-ups. Nail pops. That kind of thing.” 

Ian nods. “Mickey around?” 

He gestures toward the kitchen. “With Danny.” He gives Ian a pointed look. “Don’t go lookin’ to kick the hornet’s nest.” 

Ian laughs under his breath. “I’ll try.” 

The dining room has a chandelier. It doesn’t fit in, not exactly, but as Mickey said _People love a fuckin’ chandelier_ and sure enough, it was one of the first things that woman liked. It is pretty though, Ian has to admit. Delicate in the right places, strong in the right places. Bright, but with a dimmer. 

He sees Danny first. “Your boyfriend’s here,” he cracks to Mickey. 

Mickey spins around. “Hey,” he says quickly. 

“Um,” Ian says, eyes on Danny. “I need my flashlight and my square. I’m packin’ up.” 

“Well, I don’t have your flashlight,” Mickey says quickly. “But your square’s probably on the table.” 

He waits, eyes moving from Danny to Mickey to Danny again. “Okay,” he says. “I guess I’ll just go?” 

He leaves the kitchen, and Jamal is there. Jamal has his flashlight, and Sully showed up to touch up grout, and the other guys are there, and the whole house smells like fresh wood, and the light comes in. Ian turns in a circle. It’s the last time he’s going to see it like this. He holds it with his eyes. 

“Looks good, huh?” Sully says. 

Ian nods. “Really good.” 

Danny comes out of the kitchen with Mickey trailing behind him. “Nice workin’ with ya,” Danny says. He winks, gives a little kiss in the air. 

Ian puts his hands on his hips and turns. He breathes hard. “We’re not doin’ this,” he says.

Danny puts his hands up in a defensive pose. “Doin’ what?” He laughs and drops his hands. “I’m jokin’ man. Sorry.” 

“Ian,” McGinley says, voice low. 

Ian shakes his head. He’s tired. His arms are tired. His brain is tired. “We already settled this,” he says to McGinley. “I don’t have anything else to say to him.”

“At least accept his apology, man.” 

Ian shakes his head again. “He offered it already. The first time. The very first time. I accepted it.” He bends, throws his sawzall into his bucket and slips his flashlight into his pocket. “And ever since then, every time I see him–” 

He pauses. Stops himself. He turns toward Danny. “Every time I see _you_ , you have something else to say. Some other bullshit to say.” He turns, just slightly, toward Mickey. Mickey is looking right at him, lips parted. “The same stupid shit, over and over. You know how boring that is? It’s boring.” 

Danny shrugs. “Don’t seem so boring to you when you’re threatening me over and over.” 

Ian feels the flash of anger hit him, but he lets it pass through him. He clenches his teeth, counts to 5. It’s fight or flight, she told him. The doctor. It’s a natural response, she said. Animal brain. Survival. But he knows about stop signs, now. He knows that he’s on medication. He knows who he is. He’s fought hard to be here. Alive. Standing. Still staring at Danny, but quiet. Still. Not fighting. Not running. 

“I don’t have anything to say,” he says. “I’m done.” He glances at Mickey, nods. He bends, picking up his work bucket. “It was good workin’ with you guys. Place looks great.” 

He doesn’t look back, just carries the bucket to the front door. It’s gonna be hard to carry it on the el, but not impossible. He sighs. And that’s when he hears it. Mickey. 

It’s so quiet he almost misses it altogether, but when he turns, eyes wide open, he knows he heard him right. Heard his voice. Heard him say it.

"What did you just say?" McGinley says, eyes wide. 

Mickey says it again. Louder, but still pretty quiet. His voice wavers. "I said I'm fucking gay. Big old 'mo."

Ian is holding his breath, staring right at him. Oh god. This is really happening. 

"I just thought everyone should know that," he says, just a little louder.

Ian shakes his head slowly. He lets out a breath. He wants to run to him, run to Mickey.

Mickey’s eyes are tight on his as his voice wavers. He claps his hands to his sides. “You happy now?” 

Ian feels his head slipping back slowly, slipping forward. He realizes it’s a nod, a soft nod. Yes. 

“An’ I’m with him,” Mickey says, gesturing to Ian. “With Ian.” 

Jamal’s mouth is open. “You mean, like, Ian’s your…” he lets it trail off. 

“Yeah,” Mickey says. “Yeah, he is.” 

“Holy shit,” Danny says quietly. 

Mickey spins around to find him. “Yeah, holy shit is right,” he bites out. “So you can shut the fuck up at any time.” 

Danny closes his mouth. Sully’s eyes are bright and he grins wide before breathing out a satisfied sigh. Ian’s mouth is open, but he doesn’t know what to say. 

“Let’s go,” Mickey says, and he crosses the room, across the newly sanded floors, the fresh varnish. He takes Ian’s tool bucket out of his hand. He turns to the rest of them. “McGinley, I’m gonna call Kowalski. He tosses the keys in McGinley’s direction, and he catches them.” He turns to Ian. “I said let's go. Let's fucking go.” 

The van isn’t locked. Mickey slams the door as he settles in the driver’s seat. Ian’s hands shake against the seat belt. Mickey is staring straight ahead, mouth open just slightly. He puts his hands on the wheel, and for a moment, it looks like he’s driving. It looks like he’s driving in some old Hollywood movie with the background screen sliding by. But he sits there, keys in his lap. 

“Mick,” Ian whispers. “Do you want me to drive?” 

He clears his throat, once, fast. “No,” he says, hands dropping, fumbling in his lap for the keys. “No, I got it.” 

Ian looks out the window as Mickey eases away from the curb. Everyone has come out into the yard. McGinley is standing there, and Sully, and Jamal and Danny and the rest of them. He feels a flush of adrenaline through his body, and then a flush of relief. He can’t believe it. It happened. It really did. 

Mickey is quiet, so Ian stays quiet, too. He’s learning how to be quiet, now. He’s trying to learn. He stares out the window as Mickey drives, looking at all the houses, the apartments, all the new places and old places. By the time they pull up to Mickey’s house, Ian’s adrenaline has calmed. He turns, finally, to face Mickey. 

Mickey is looking right at him, but when Ian opens his mouth, Mickey turns his head away and opens his door, slamming it behind him. Ian closes his mouth and reaches for the handle with a sigh. 

But the moment he closes the van door, Mickey’s hands are on him. He slams Ian against the van, and his mouth presses heavy against his. Oh god. Oh wow. He can hear the train overhead, someone on the street talking, hear someone’s engine turning over. They’re outside. They’re outside, and Mickey is kissing him, pressing him harder against the van. Outside. 

“Mickey,” he murmurs in his mouth. “Mick, we’re-”

“I know,” he says. He yanks at Ian’s arm. “I know we are. Fuck it. C’mon. Let’s go.” 

Mickey shoves the door open. He doesn’t bother to shut it, just pushes Ian against the wall. Ian gasps as Mickey’s lips pull against his neck. He sighs “Mick,” and Mickey’s hands pull him harder, pulling him away from the wall, slamming the door shut with his foot, pushing him down the hall, both stumbling. 

Mickey pushes Ian against his bedroom door, gasping. Mickey tears off Ian's shirt, dropping it to the floor, but twists away when Ian tries to do the same.

“Not yet,” Mickey says. “Just let me touch you. C’mon.”

He pushes Ian toward the bed, but they miss and Ian’s body hits the headboard on the way down. A bunch of crap from the shelves falls on the floor, something that breaks with a shatter behind the bed. When Ian goes “Ow,” Mickey pulls him over and drops to kiss at his side. “You okay?” he says. Ian nods and pulls him close. 

Mickey's hands yank at his pants, and Ian says "wait," and Mickey's face meets his, but he doesn't move his hands. He swallows.

"Are you-" Ian begins, "Are you okay?"

Mickey nods. He slows his breath. "I'm okay," he says, and it's like a surprise. "I'm..." He pauses, amused. "I'm gay." 

Ian laughs lightly. He kisses him, softly, and the contrast from just before is beautiful. "I thought so," Ian says. "I was pretty sure you were."

Mickey nods and nods. "You were right." He pauses. "No, but you were right. It feels...better. Thought I'd feel worse, but."

Ian nods. "I'm so proud of you." His hand slides against his hair. 

Mickey doesn't say anything, but his cheeks flush, just a little. "We done with this? I got other ideas right now."

"Mmm," Ian hums, and he raises his hips slightly where Mickey still fists his pants. "I love your ideas." 

They kiss hard. Ian tries to slow it down, but Mickey isn’t having it. Ian manages to break away, mouth swollen and already tired, but the minute he does, he immediately goes back in for more. He is taken over by MIckey’s mouth, his thick lips, his tongue. Mickey pulls away and presses his head against Ian’s cheek, shoving Ian’s head to the side and sucking and biting against his throat. 

“Oh god,” Ian groans. His eyes shut tight and he fights his own body for breath. Mickey is marking him, over and over, more than he ever has, and Ian can’t get enough of it. He wants it. Wants to be claimed and sore and red and purple and all Mickey’s. Wants people to see, to know, to wonder. Wants to say “Mickey,” so he does. “Mickey, fuck.” 

Mickey keeps pulling at his pants. "Gonna take it so good for you," he growls. "Take you better than I ever have. Wudja like that?” 

Ian’s breath is fast. “Yes,” he manages to push out, somehow. Mickey keeps going, saying so many words, each one punctuated with the pull of Mickey's fingers. First the belt buckle, the little teeth slipping free of the metal, then the worn leather. Then the sounds of it jingling around and falling apart. He pants as the zipper is pulled next, as he lightly lifts his hips when Mickey's fingers slide beneath the waistband and pull. Mickey's fingernails scratch against his hip bones and he pulls his boxers off in one smooth motion. Mickey spits in his palm and reaches for Ian’s cock, pulling him slowly. The contrast to his hard words, the tight control, is overwhelming.

Mickey sucks at his chest, scrapes his teeth. Ian doesn’t know his eyes are closed until Mickey presses his forehead against his, Mickey licks his lips and kisses him. He pulls back, murmuring against Ian’s mouth. "Wanna feel you. Have you fuck me hard. Deep. Hold me down."

He’s about to sit up, fight to sit up, grab Mickey, flip him over on his back and do exactly what he said, give him what he wants, but Mickey chuckles under his breath and gently squeezes his dick to calm him. “Patience,” Mickey says, smiling. 

Ian stills, lets Mickey kiss him, pull him. He closes his eyes and breathes. All he can hear in his mind are Mickey’s words at the site. All he can see are Mickey’s eyes on his, his quiet voice. _You happy now?_

He is. God, he fucking is. He’s happy now. He’s really happy now, finally. Not just with Mickey right here, like this. Not just with Mickey like that, like before, saying those words. He’s happy. He knows he can be happy. Not afraid. Not broken. He feels Mickey’s lips, Mickey’s tongue in his mouth. Mickey’s hand against him. _You happy now?_

Ian pulls his head away as best he can with Mickey on top of him, pushes up against Mickey’s shoulders. Mickey’s eyebrows knit together as he stills, letting his hand slow to a stop, lifting. Their eyes lock. Ian slowly brings his hand to his neck, watching Mickey’s hooded eyes, his lips parted, breathing. He doesn’t know how he manages it, but he manages to sit up in the bed without much effort. Mickey’s jeans are rough against him, but he doesn’t care. With this new position, Mickey is straddling his lap, and that’s all that matters. 

He squeezes the back of his neck once, lightly. His other hand slides up and down his back. “Mickey,” he says softly. 

He looks shy, all of a sudden, like he sometimes is when he’s spread out on the bed, naked, staring up at him. Mickey lets Ian’s hands slide beneath his shirt, closing his eyes, soft groan as his fingertips slide against his nipples. Ian eases the shirt off, and Mickey’s breath hitches when Ian’s fingernails softly slide up his bare back before Ian’s fingertips return. 

“Mick,” Ian says again, just as soft. Mickey looks right into his eyes. 

“What,” he breathes, eyes searching. 

“Thank you,” he says. He can feel a slight burn in his eyes that he blinks back. 

Mickey nods quickly. He clears his throat, just enough. Just enough for Ian to see his eyes getting glassy. He looks down, looks away. He’s swallowing fast and wipes at his nose. 

Ian’s fingers slide beneath Mickey’s chin. He lets his eyes burn, lets them blink and blink. He expects Mickey to fight it, but he doesn’t. He pulls Mickey’s head up, fingers sliding away from his chin as his palm finds his cheek. His eyes still blink and then close. 

“Hey,” Ian says softly. “Hey, it’s okay.” He can feel a tear on his cheek. His voice is tight, and it’s okay. “We’re okay.” 

Mickey nods, and when the tears drop, Ian brushes them away. He nods. “Yeah,” he says, clearing his throat again, sniffing hard. “Yeah, okay.” 

Ian holds his face with both hands, kissing him softly. He drops a hand and finds Mickey’s waist, curling his arm around him. Mickey breaks apart to let out a shaky breath. 

“I’m ready,” he whispers. “Please.” 

Ian’s arm circles him tighter and he eases Mickey onto his back. He pulls Mickey’s body to the edge of the bed and drops to his knees. He quickly pops the button and zips him open with one hand, pulling them off fast, pulling harder when one leg catches on Mickey’s foot. He doesn’t take his boxers off yet. He just grabs onto his hips and presses his mouth against him through the fabric, mouthing at him, groaning, hungry. 

“You smell so good,” Ian says, mouth moving against him, feeling the growing hardness against his lips. “Always smell so fucking good.” He squeezes at his hips harder. 

Mickey groans, his hand coming down, holding Ian’s head close to him, restricting his movement. Ian doesn’t need any encouragement. He could stay here forever, just breathing him in, his taste just out of reach. He moans as his fingers reach for his waistband, pulls down. He feels more than sees Mickey’s cock catch in the waistband before it bounces out against his face, and he feels like he’s going to break into a million peices. He shoves the boxers down, not lifting his face, not able to because Mickey’s hand is still against his head, but he’d never dream of moving anyway. His tongue reaches out for him, sliding up the underside of him, breathing hot and fast against Mickey. His foreskin is smooth and his dick is hard and god, he could live here. 

Something happens. Mickey starts to shake. At first Ian takes it as pleasure, and he presses into him even more, tongue sliding up. He takes the head of Mickey’s dick in his mouth and hums, just before he feels Mickey’s stomach shaking against his forehead. No. Wait. What?

Ian pulls away with a deep breath and raised eyebrows. He was right. Mickey’s chuckling, his chuckle giving way to almost a full laugh. 

It irritates Ian more than it should, and makes him embarrassed. "Why is this funny?” 

Mickey shakes his head, trying to bite the grin from his lips. “It’s not,” he says. “It’s really fuckin' good. It’s just–”

“Just what?” Ian sits back on his heels. He licks his lips, but his hands don’t move from Mickey’s hips. 

“I was just thinking about when I came over that time,” Mickey says, smiling. “Back when I didn’t know how to blow you.” 

“Don’t make fun of that!” Ian lets go of his hips, but he fights a smile as he settles higher on his knees, hands against Mickey’s thighs. “That’s the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me!” 

Mickey blushes fast. Ian loves when he blushes. “I’m not makin' fun,” he says. "Got no idea how many times I jerked off thinking about that."

“Oh really?” Ian grins. Mickey gets redder. “Then what’s so funny?” 

Mickey smiles wide. “Was just thinking about how I thought I'd never be able to do that as good as you do.” 

Ian raises an eyebrow, smiling. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I think you caught on pretty quick,” Ian says. “You’re _really_ good at it.” 

“Yeah?”

“Of _course_ you are. You know you are. Fucking amazing, honestly."

Mickey blushes again. “I was so fuckin’ scared.” 

"I know."

"No," Mickey says, smile dropping just a little. "I mean about all of it. Not just the sex stuff." 

Ian nods. "I know," he says softly. 

Mickey pulls him closer again. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m done goofin’ around, we can get back ta-” 

Ian laughs under his breath. “It’s okay,” he says. “Sex can be fun like this. It’s okay for it to be fun. Means we’re, you know, relaxed.” 

Mickey nods slowly. “Never thought I could be.” He swallows. “You know. Relaxed with this.” 

Ian slides his hands over Mickey’s body, down to his hips and up again. He slides his hands over his shoulders. “I know,” he says. “And you’re safe.” 

Mickey’s parts his lips. Licks them. “I know,” he says softly. "Know I am."

Ian kisses him softly, starts to pull away before Mickey’s hand finds the back of his head, pulls him closer. Ian’s knees are still on the floor, but he leans over the bed, pressing against him. Mickey begins to squirm, starts to grab at Ian's arms, breaks away from his lips to move up on the bed, pulling Ian with him.

"Touch me," Mickey grunts. "Touch me everywhere."

Ian smiles against his mouth. "You really want me, don'tcha?" He moves to Mickey's neck. He bites softly. He waits for one of Mickey's smartass remarks, but it never comes. Mickey only groans, sliding a leg over Ian's, back bowing out, just slightly. "Okay," Ian says against his neck. "Okay, Mick."

He knows what Mickey wants. It's not exactly about being dominated. It's not about Ian being called master, called sir. That's not what Mickey wants, not exactly. But it's a little like that, Ian knows that much. Mickey wants him in charge, taking care of him, wants to not think. Sometimes he's like this - waiting to be weighted down by him. He's said something-just once- about how sometimes he didn't really know where his edges were. Where his body was in space, like the world was just hovering around him. _S’why I liked gettin’ in fights,”_ he said, once. _Felt it. You know. Where I was._ Ian didn't understand, could feel the confusion on his face, squinting as he tried to ask more. But Mickey shut it down, turned away, said _"Nevermind, just drop it."_ over and over. 

But he learned. Mickey told him. Taught him. When Ian held onto him, Mickey knew where the edges were, could feel himself rooted in space. When Ian took care of him, like that, like this, Mickey could relax, feel every inch of nerves and skin relax into the air, knowing where he is. Weighted. Safe. Able to let himself go. Relax. There's something new that opens when they reach that place, when they find each other there, shuddering, Mickey’s fingers pressing hard into Ian’s back as Ian holds him heavy around his legs, hips. Or Mickey flat on his stomach, wrists held, or Mickey’s ass in the air, top half pressed against the mattress, Ian fucking into him hard, Mickey panting _yes, yes, yes_ when Ian presses his head onto the pillow. He’ll do whatever Mickey wants, whatever Mickey asks for. _Want to know where I am,_ Mickey will say. _Help me feel where I am._ And afterward they lie quietly, Ian softly touching him, Mickey floating back to earth. Both floating back to earth, drinking from the same glass of water, staring into each other’s eyes, breathing. 

But that’s not all the time, and not that often, really. Mostly it’s after a hard day. A day where Mickey is jumpy, overwhelmed. 

Like this. 

Mickey looks into his eyes. His voice is soft. “Help me, do that thing for me.” 

“What do you want me to do?” Ian murmurs back. “You okay?” There's a little sound in Mickey's mouth, just barely brushing Ian's breath. Ian doesn’t need to know what it is, what the words are, what they mean. He can taste them, almost. He slides off Mickey, just a little, just enough. Their chests are bare, now. Legs too. Ian slides his hands down Mickey’s arms, slowly, so slowly, listening to his shaking breath, and when his long fingers wrap their way around his wrists, Mickey shudders. Ian hums against his neck, hips pushing against Mickey’s, weighing him down. 

He squeezes against his wrists, first, just a little, just a hello before he moves his hands into Mickey's, slotting their fingers together. 

Because this is what Mickey is like. He is soft, and he is hard. He is everything Ian has ever wanted, dreamed of, everything he never thought he’d be able to have. Be worthy of having. _You happy now?_ He is. 

“Fuck me,” Mickey gasps in his ear. “Please, Ian. Want you to fuck me hard.” 

“You already said that,” Ian says, laughing lightly against Mickey’s lips. “You really think I forgot?” 

Mickey squirms. “I–”

Ian has to bend to the right to catch Mickey’s gaze again. He had pushed his eyes aside, self-conscious. 

“Don’t make fun of me,” Mickey says quietly. 

Ian’s chest tightens. Everything tightens. “Oh, Mick,” he says quietly, quickly. “Fuck, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t. I swear. Oh god. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t do that. ‘Specially when we’re like this. I’m so fucking sorry.” 

Mickey’s hands squeeze against Ian’s, and suddenly there they are. Green on blue. “It’s okay,” he says. “I was just–” 

“No,” Ian says quickly. “It’s my fault. I–”

“Listen,” Mickey says, squeezing Ian’s hands. “Don’t freak out, it’s fine. We’re good, okay?”

Ian nods slowly. 

“It’s not about how we were, you know, goin’ about it. I just–” He swallows. “I just never know how to say it. I just want you to. You know. Do it. Fuck, I guess. Fuck me, have sex, whatever. I don’t know how to say it. You know?"

It’s on Ian’s lips, and it’s so embarrassing, what he calls it in his head. It’s like a movie, some movie Debs would watch, some movie Amanda would make fun of but secretly like. It’s how he felt, a long time ago, what he thought life would be like if he wished hard enough. He opens and closes his mouth.

“What.” 

Ian shifts, just slightly, on top of him. “Love you.” 

Mickey presses his head back into the pillow, squints up at him. “Yeah, me too. What.” 

“This. What we’re doing. You know. You’re letting me love you. Letting me, you know, make lo-"

Mickey laughs. Ian can feel his stomach shaking against his. Ian can feel his cheeks flush, embarrassed. “What?” Ian says. “What’s funny?” 

“Just calling it that,” Mickey says. “Sound like a fuckin’ romance book.” 

Ian smiles, laughs against Mickey’s teeth, kisses him. “We’re not in a romance book?” 

“Look the fuck around,” Mickey says quietly. He gestures with trapped fingers around his room. “This scream romantic to you?” 

Ian lets his smile fade. He starts to back off Mickey, looking around, letting go of his hands. He looks around the room, slowly, then looks back at Mickey. 

“You’re here,” he says. 

They breathe slowly. He can see it in Mickey’s eyes, a sudden small creeping, like an injured cat he once found on the job, peering out from under one of the broken houses. A little cat with a badly healed break, fleas in the ears, but tired of living down there in the crawl space, nestled there under the foundation in the dark. There have been others. Sometimes they hiss, truly feral, running as fast as they can, never coming back. Sometimes they hide again, and Ian can’t stop thinking about them once the house starts being pulled apart. He doesn’t see them, not alive or dead, and he doesn’t know what became of them. Maybe they found somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. More hidden. 

But it’s that one, the one with the break, that he remembers most. A little grey tabby, skittish and sweet, that shot out from under the house when the sledgehammers started in. When the job wrapped for the day, Ian stayed. He sat and sat and sat next to the open space where he had seen her. He had been on meds for a little while. He was adjusting to a new change. He didn’t want the guys to see his shaky hands. He didn’t talk much - he didn’t want the guys to hear how he stumbled over his words. Words just wouldn’t come. He knew it was a side effect. They were both side effects. He had so many of them - enough that he thought his entire life had become tainted with them. Stuttering over simple words, trying to will his fingers to still as he trembled over wire, over metal. He no longer ran off to the club. No longer ran off to the bar, or ran back to his weed. No longer ran to a stranger’s bed. 

He sat there, cigarette in hand, looking at the little space where he last saw her. It was almost dusk. Late May. Pink painted thick in the sky. The smell of lilac everywhere, and here she was. Standing there. Staring. He made a tiny noise. He stayed still. He stayed very, very, very still. She limped, just a little. Still. Very, very still. He lowered his cigarette slowly, stubbing it against the ground. She jerked, almost turned, but he made the tiniest noise. A kiss. His fingertips, reaching, just a little. 

She was dirty, and she was skinny, despite all the mice around. Young, probably. She walked closer, closer, stopped. They stared at each other. And then she ran. Ran fast, and Ian didn’t see her for days. He waited every day. He didn’t have anything else to do. He poured water in a makeshift bowl, a handful of the food he started carrying in his backpack. They watched each other, they waited. And one day, a day as normal as any other day, his shaky hands and his shaking words, his loneliness, his quiet heart, she walked toward him. She stayed. 

“What is it.” 

“Nothing,” he whispers. He hasn’t thought of her like that in a long time, Lip and Amanda’s cat. Thought of her tiny like that, shy. Now she stretches out on their couch, out on their bed, like she’s lived there forever. Sometimes she gives Ian’s leg a rub on the way to her water dish. He doesn’t know how much cats remember. Does she remember life before? Does she miss it? Does she remember him, pink sky and lilac and a plastic bottle cut into the shape of a dish? Remember his shaking hands? 

“You can say that,” Mickey says, eyes darting around Ian’s face. Nervous. “If you wanna call it, you know, that."

Ian nods. “Okay,” he says. 

“Come here,” Mickey whispers. He kisses Ian, both hard and soft. 

“You okay if we slow it down?” Ian whispers. “Or do you need me to–”

“No,” Mickey says quietly. “I mean yeah. Yeah, we can slow it down. Just want it hard, you know, when we get there.” 

Ian nods. “Okay,” he says, and gently brushes his lips against Mickey’s. 

He tastes so good. His lips, his tongue, his face, his neck. Skin is so smooth, down and down, every part of him. Everywhere Ian softly travels, feeling Mickey’s fingers in his hair, against his face as he moves lower. He can feel Mickey’s eyes on him, and when they meet, Ian feels like he is falling. _I love you_ he thinks, holds onto it in his head. It glides it way through his brain, every wrinkle, every bruised place, into all the synapses he thought were too damaged, too broken, too ugly to feel anything but pain. _I love you. I love you._ Because Mickey's dick is deep inside his mouth, and Ian’s hands glide up his body, softly. He feels Mickey lift one hand, his fingers, taking Ian’s thumb into his mouth. 

_I love you. I love you._ If Ian could move his lips, he would tell him. But right now his tongue is busy, swiping and tasting Mickey, and he squeezes his eyes shut while Mickey sucks his thumb harder. Fuck. 

Mickey turns his head, letting Ian’s thumb fall. “Come up here,” he says, breathless. “Don’t want to come yet. ‘M too close, you gotta stop.” 

Ian’s mouth slides up and off him. He likes the stretched feeling at the back of his throat. He slides his fingers against Mickey’s forehead, letting his fingers find the thick scar from the gun. Mickey flinches, just for a second, and Ian drops his hand. “I’m sorry,” Ian says. “I shouldn’t have–”

Mickey shakes his head, reaches for Ian’s hand, moves it back. Ian glides his thumb over it.

He can feel Mickey’s fingers softly sliding down, sliding against Ian’s neck, sliding over his collarbone, sliding against his shoulder. And he pauses there, smoothing his thumb against the scars on Ian’s arm. They breathe in and out, eyes locked. There is a deep swell that rises up, a nakedness. He glides his thumb again, feeling the indentation, the spot that didn’t heal right behind the glue or tape - whatever he used to force it shut. He feels Mickey’s hand slide to hold his bicep, and he feels Mickey’s fingertip slide along every scar, tracing over the thicker ones he opened over and over, tracing over the lighter ones. And then Mickey does it. He slides his fingers beneath Ian’s arm, enough that Ian twitches like he’s going to be tickled. But he knows, then, what Mickey knows, what he probably has already seen over and over. It’s the one Ian forgets about, sometimes. It’s easier. He can’t see it in the mirror, and his brain blocks it out. There’s an odd mark there. 

“What’d you use?” Mickey whispers. 

Ian’s eyes blur. He swallows. He remembers the orange van in the yard. Remembers his cigarette. Remembers holding it near his skin before he put it in his mouth. Before he changed his mind. Before he pushed in the– “Car lighter,” he says. He swallows again. “Not a lot. Quick.” He blinks his eyes and looks at Mickey. “Does it–what does it look like?” 

Mickey slides his finger against it once before pulling his fingers back and sliding them up his arm, touching his hand, holding it against his scar again. “It looks like part of you,” he says. 

“Fuck,” Ian says quietly, eyes going damp again. He closes them. “It’s so ugly. It’s so–” 

“It’s part of you,” Mickey says again. “It’s not all you are. Like this,” he says, and squeezes his fingers against Ian’s, against the scar on his head. “It’s shit that happened already. No use wishing it was different. Just how it is.” 

Ian nods. He wishes it was enough. “But Mick,” he says. He opens and closes his mouth. “Mick, what if I do it again? What if–” 

Mickey shakes his head. “You won’t. You–” 

“No,” Ian says. “No, Mick, listen. I might. I can have it under control. But even if–” he breathes out. “Even _though_ you love me, I'll probably get sick. Maybe not bad, but I will. This is, this is a forever thing. What I have. I’m trying not to be better. I swear I am. But I don’t want you sitting around, worrying, watching me, waiting for me to do my next crazy shit.” 

Mickey shakes his head slowly, and Ian’s hand slips off his forehead. He’s about to turn over, but Mickey grabs him, pulls him close, kisses him hard, his arm reaching around him, pulling him tight. 

Mickey pulls back. “Don’t say that,” he says against Ian’s lips. “Ian, I love you.” 

“Loving me doesn’t change this,” Ian says. He can hear the exhaustion in his voice. “It doesn’t go away. It won’t. Not ever. And what if I, you know, slip? Or what if I get crazy and you have to take me to the doctor? What if I have to go in the hospital? You don’t want want that. You don’t want–” 

Mickey pulls back so he’s looking right at him. “Already told you,” he says firmly. “You don’t get to tell me what I want.” His hand slides around his neck. “I’ve want you.” Mickey swallows hard, blinks his eyes. "I've wanted you this whole fucking time."

Ian had to take a deep breath. He watches Mickey's eyes open and close. 

“I’m sorry all that happened to you,” Ian whispers. “With your dad.” 

Mickey closes his eyes, wrinkles his forehead. “Fuck,” he whispers. 

“You didn’t deserve that. No one does.” 

Mickey nods slowly. “I know.” 

“Mickey, open your eyes.” 

He does, opens them slowly. So blue. “You didn’t do anything wrong. You know that, right? He hurt you. He was a monster.” 

“He was my dad,” Mickey says, at once defensive and detached. “S’ not like your dad was so great.” 

Ian breathes out. “I know,” he says softly. “But he beat you. All of you. All the time. He almost killed you. More than once. You didn’t do anything wrong.” 

“I know.” 

“Do you?” 

“Yeah, I get it.” 

Mickey isn’t looking at him anymore. He’s rolling onto his back. Ian hovers above him, trying to get him to turn back, to look back. But he doesn’t. He is staring at the wall, that spot on the wall. The spot with the plaster broken, just wood underneath. Mickey’s height. Ian follows his gaze, then turns back. 

“Mickey,” he says softly, carefully. He’s known this, expected this, but has never asked. “Mickey, how’d it get like that? What did he do to you?” 

Mickey swallows. “After that day,” he says. “That day with that guy? Bout a week later I’m just in my room, and he comes at me, calling me a faggot, a fucking faggot. He throws me into the wall. I’m still all bruised to shit and my head’s not healed up. I can’t get away. He just takes my shirt and throws me back over and over, an’ I can’t even breathe, and I can feel it crackin’ on my back. He just punches me and punches me. Pass out. Wake up with more blood on my face. Dryin’ even. I don’t know how long I was out.” 

Ian doesn’t know what to say, but he doesn’t have to say anything, because Mickey turns back, turns back and holds onto his face, almost desperate, eyes shifting over and over Ian’s eyes. “‘S over, right? Safe, right?”

“Yeah,” Ian breathes. He lets Mickey pull him close, kiss him, lets Mickey’s tongue swipe into his mouth as his hands grip tighter. 

There isn’t anything else to say. There are hands and mouths. It doesn’t take long to get back to it, or to get Mickey ready, but they take their time anyway. Mickey’s back arches as he groans, so many words that Ian gulps down like air. He touches him just like Mickey wants, whispering _“like this?”_ And yes, Mickey says. Says yes, exactly like that. 

They draw it out, every brush of skin pulling them closer. Mickey grabs Ian’s face, whining, saying “Now, come on.” saying “Ian, please.” And it’s the word please that makes Ian’s brain buzz. 

Ian holds onto one of Mickey’s hips tight, the other pulling up his thigh, and presses hard into him with one stroke, and Mickey cries out, eyes shut. Ian stays still, stays deep, waiting. Waiting until Mickey is gasping over and over. _Go. God, move. Move._ Ian slides back the tiniest amount, and Mickey gasps, eyes shut, head back. He shakes. He’s waiting, and Ian lets him wait. Waits until Mickey’s eyes open. They do. Mickey opens his eyes, and they begin. Ian catches the edge, catches onto the breathless edge where Mickey waits, and he brings it all back, crashing the buildup of pleasure down with one full snap of his hips. 

He was right. Mickey was. He takes Ian better than he ever has, over and over, groaning every word that he knows will drive Ian deeper, harder. It’s only a moment before he feels Mickey’s nails on his back, feels Mickey's thighs clenching hard around his hips. Mickey’s breath catches, and before he can start to groan, start to insist Ian touches him, touches him, fuck, c’mon, Ian grabs at his thighs, yanking, roughly pushing them wider. Mickey moans. “You like this?” Ian pants. “Want me to fuck you like this?” 

“Yes,” Mickey breathes. “Yeah, like this.” Ian sits on his knees, spreading Mickey in front of him, holding his thighs tighter and tighter, wider, yanking him back and back and back on his cock, harder, faster, and Mickey’s eyes roll back, and he yells out. Actually yells. Yells _God_ and _Fuck_ and Ian can feel his fingers digging into his thighs, sees his fingertips clenched white against Mickey’s skin. 

Mickey’s fingers grab at the sheet, the sheet that has pulled completely free of the mattress, now. The bed rocks beneath them, springs fighting to hold them up. 

“Gimme your hands,” Ian pants, and Mickey lets go of the sheet immediately. His hands are sweaty and shaking when Ian takes them, holding them in his, holding them against Mickey’s thighs which tremble and tighten. 

“Fuuuuuck,” Mickey groans out, loud, head back. “Oh fuck, Ian.” 

Suddenly they hear loud music begin to play, beat thick and driving, through the wall. Mandy. Ian starts to slow down, distracted, but Mickey clenches around him. “You fucking _look at me,_ ” he growls. “Forget about that. Come on.” 

Ian shakes the distraction from his head with another hard thrust of his hips. “You close?” 

Mickey nods fast. “Gimme more,” he pants. “I can take it.” 

Ian does. He can feel the sweat on his back, the sweat in their hands, smell the smell of them that is rising faster, thicker. He moans. “Oh god, you gotta come now.”

Mickey nods fast. “I will. I–I–” he licks his lips. His eyes roll and he tenses again. 

“You’re okay,” Ian says. “I got you, come on.” 

Ian doesn't have to reach for his dick. He doesn't even have a hand free, because Mickey’s hands clench under his and he moans so loud, louder than he has in a long time, maybe ever, and there they are, gasping. Ian’s head spins, and there he is, letting go, letting go inside Mickey, collapsing, breathless. Mickey grabs at his back, holding him tight, even though he’s already come. Ian can feel it against his stomach, sticky. He mouths against his neck, but stops when Mickey winces slightly, too sensitive for that, now. 

“I love you,” Mickey says against his ear. “Jesus, fuck.” 

Ian nods. “I think you broke me.” He backs up, staring down at Mickey’s body. “Holy shit, look what we did to you.” He swallows hard. Mickey’s thighs are scraped up, and Ian can almost see the start of bruising. 

Mickey chuckles. “Good,” he says, barely catching his breath. “‘S’what I wanted. Thanks.” 

Ian nods again. He kisses him, quickly, then just a little more. He flops on his back. “Holy shit. You weren’t kidding before. About taking it. Fuck.” 

Mickey chuckles, reaching for his hand, lifting it, kissing his palm. “I keep my promises.” 

They lie there, breathing, looking at the ceiling. Mandy’s music plays. It’s something familiar, something he might remember from the club or something, but he can’t make out any words. It doesn’t matter. 

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Ian says softly, turning on his side. Mickey turns on his, too, and Ian’s eyes and fingers glide over his thigh, around his ass, up his side, up his body, up his shoulder, cupping his face. “I didn’t hurt you?” 

“No,” Mickey says. “No, I’m okay.” 

Ian looks at his lips. “Do you want anything? Water?” 

Mickey nods. “Yeah,” he says. “I’ll get it.” He starts to sit up.

“No, don’t,” Ian says. “Lay back down. I’ll get it. Let me get it. ” He kisses Mickey once, quickly. “You want anything else? Towel?” 

Mickey shakes his head, breathing hard, smiling. Ian smiles back, crawling off the bed, sliding boxers on. His. Mickey’s. Who cares. 

He’s giving his body the once-over when he turns the corner, and jumps back in surprise when Mandy is leaning against the counter, drinking a soda and raising an eyebrow. 

“Finally got tired?” 

“Shit,” Ian says. “I thought you were in your room. Sorry.” 

“My wall was almost breaking, so I had to come out here,” she says. “I would have put on headphones if I could find em.”

“Not me,” a voice sounds from the couch. Iggy turns away from the TV, shaggy hair in his eyes, holding a bong. “I don’t give a shit. Bang away.” 

“Gross!” Mandy crosses the room and pulls the bong from Iggy’s hand. He struggles to hold onto it before letting it go suddenly, so Mandy’s arm swings away. “That’s your brother in there,” she says. 

“So? Like this house has thick walls and no one has ever heard anyone boning?” 

Mandy grins as she sets the soda can down on the counter. “Will you at least tell me if he’s still alive?” 

Ian laughs. “Yeah.” He can feel a blush, but also a bit of, what is it, pride? It’s happiness, it’s relief. It’s all of it, mixed together. He walks closer. “I’m gonna,” he says, gesturing to a cupboard. “I need to get some water.” 

Mandy steps aside, the softest laugh as Ian turns on the faucet and begins to wash his hands. Ian catches her eye, her grin, He raises an eyebrow. “Yes?” 

She shakes her head. She grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it as Ian dries his hands. “So what’s it like?” 

Ian drinks from the glass. “Um,” he says. “That’s kind of...personal?” 

“Ew, no,” Mandy says. “No. I mean, like, what’s my brother like? To you, I mean.” 

He is like a thunderstorm, the weight in the air before things release, that smell, that wonder. He is the barest scratch of stubble, the softest skin. He is strong and soft and it makes Ian want to cry when he thinks how lucky he is to love him, and be loved by him.

“He’s,” Ian says. “He’s the best person I’ve ever met.” 

“Yeah?” She doesn’t sound surprised, or like she’s joking. There is a relief that glides through her features. 

“Yeah,” Ian says softly. He returns her smile. “Sorry,” he says. “I–I need to get this to him,” Ian says, gesturing to the glass. “Are you stickin’ around? Maybe we can all go eat or something.” 

“Worked up an appetite,” Iggy says.

“Shut up,” Mandy says, pushing off the counter, giving Ian a playful shove. “I’ll be back in my room trying to cleanse my ears.” 

Ian is still chuckling when he comes back to Mickey’s bedroom. He leans down on the bed, kissing Mickey’s lips, holding onto his hand to pull him to a sit. Mickey grumbles like he’s embarrassed, but when Ian sits beside him, he brushes his fingers against Ian’s knee as he drinks. 

“So?” Ian says. “Still okay?” 

“Course,” Mickey says. “Just thinking.” 

“Bout what?” 

“That wall,” Mickey says, gesturing with his chin. 

Ian looks at it, looks back. Something has changed in Mickey’s eyes. “You okay?” 

Mickey drinks the rest of the water. His eyes don’t move. “I gotta piss,” he says. 

“Mick–” Ian begins, but Mickey swings a leg over him and heads for the bathroom. 

“Eh, open the window,” Mickey calls from the bathroom. “Get dressed.” 

“Where are we going?” 

Mickey doesn’t answer. Ian can hear the faucet running. He comes back with his hair wet. “Nowhere,” he says. “Just do it.” He pulls his clothes on fast and grabs a cigarette from the nightstand, lighting it. 

Ian’s brows knit together. “Did I do something?” 

“No,” Mickey says, tossing Ian’s shirt to him. “‘S not like that. I just got an idea. Hang on.” 

Ian shrugs as Mickey leaves the room. He pulls the shirt over his head, followed by boxers and jeans. He finds his shoes, one in the room, one in the hall. He pulls out one of Mickey’s cigarettes and lights it. Mandy’s music is still going, and the TV is still blaring. He pulls open the window, shaking the old painted frame, the old pulley system broken, holding the thin window up with a splintery piece of wood. He air is getting cooler in the evenings, sunset coming faster. He takes a deep breath against the fresh air. 

Suddenly the music stops. The sounds of the house stop. The light on the nightstand shuts off. 

“What the fuck?” Iggy yells. “Why’d you do that?” 

“Do what?” Mandy shouts from her room. 

Ian rushes in the hall. He doesn’t see him at first, but when he steps closer to the dining room, he sees the metal panel open, and Mickey stands next to it. His eyes are strange, almost scared. 

“He shut the power off!” Iggy yells. 

“Why?” 

“Maybe you should come out here, Mandy,” Ian says.“Just for a sec.” 

Mandy does. She’s holding a cigarette too. “Mick? You okay?” 

He stands there, looking from each person to each person. He crosses the room and opens the front door, leaving it open behind him. 

“You–” Iggy says, gesturing to Ian. He’s already moving, heading for the doorway. 

“Mick?” He sees him throw open the back of his van, but he can’t see him. “What–” 

Mickey slams the door. He has a rubber mallet in one hand and hammers in the other. He walks right by Ian, right by Iggy, right by Mandy’s hand that reaches out, past all of them saying some sort of version of his name. 

Ian doesn’t know why they don’t follow him. It’s like they are rooted in place, looking at each other with complete confusion, even though things are slowly becoming clear. 

The first bang is tentative. The second bang is stronger. By the third bang they are all in the room, and Mickey drops the mallet, letting it fall to the floor, beside the hammer. The plaster around the hole in the wall - that place where Mickey was shoved against - is cracked, and there is plaster on the floor already. He doesn’t turn around. 

He doesn’t turn, and when he does, he hears a deep gasp, and he doesn’t know who it was. Mickey. Mandy. Iggy. Him. But Mickey wipes his sleeve against his eyes, and Ian doesn’t know at first if it’s his tears or the dust, but the way Mickey’s jaw shakes makes him want to run to him. He’s about to, but Mandy is there, holding him, and they cry into each other’s shoulders, and it’s a wailing sound that is so deep and dark and sudden it almost scares him. Almost like an animal, and Ian supposes it makes sense, because people are animals, after all. Wounded. Caught in traps. Maybe lucky, one day, to be set free. That cat, coming closer, bit by bit, limping away from what was. 

Ian turns to Iggy. His eyes are wide, and he’s standing so still. So still he almost looks like a picture, a silhouette. 

Mickey doesn’t say a word. His head rises from Mandy’s shoulder, and Ian can see the tear marks all over Mickey’s shirt. There’s a burning feeling from Ian’s hand, the cigarette burned to the filter. He hisses, instinctively dropping it on the floor before stomping it out. He reaches for Mandy’s cigarette, but it’s already gone. He doesn’t know where. 

Mickey wipes at his face again, turning to Ian. “You think you can get the wiring moved okay?” 

He nods fast. He remembers that night, so long ago now, it seems. His voice. _I’d help you. If you wanted._ “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

Mickey swings the mallet hard into the wall, knocking more plaster to the side. 

“Is it–” he hates to interrupt. “It’s not a load-bearing wall, is it?” 

“No,” Mickey says with a grunt. More plaster. “It’s not.” 

“Wait!” Mandy cries out. They stop. They turn. She has her face in her hands, sobbing. “Wait!” 

Mickey drops the mallet onto the floor again. Iggy steps into the room, still wide eyed. 

“Wait!” Mandy says again. She crumples to the floor, so slow that Ian is able to hold onto her arm. “What are we gonna do?” 

It hangs there in the room. What are we gonna do. Mickey pants hard. He looks back at the wall. Looks over at Iggy. 

“How are we supposed to live?” 

No one says anything. It’s quiet. So quiet. 

“We’ve lived through worse.” 

It’s quiet, too. Iggy’s voice. It sounds so different with all the sarcasm and joking removed. Smaller. Younger. He pushes himself away from the doorway. He follows Mandy’s lead and sits on the floor. “Mandy,” he says. “We’ve lived through worse.”

“What,” she says, and there’s a quick panic, a quiver in her voice . “No heat, no power? Yeah, but our house wasn’t being knocked down. Where are we supposed to put our food and beds and stuff? We can’t live like that. We–” 

“That aint what I mean,” Iggy says. 

“But we–” 

“He means _Dad_ , Mandy.” 

Mandy shakes under Ian’s hand. She shakes her head back and forth, too. “No,” she says. “No.” 

Mickey bends down on the floor, takes her hands in his, and Ian knows that this moment isn’t his. He carefully drops his hand from Mandy’s arm, carefully leaning back, backing up. That cat again, moving slowly. Scared. 

He moves onto the bed again, watching the three siblings sit there, holding onto each other, each of them swallowing fast, sniffling. 

“He did this,” Iggy says, quietly, gesturing around at nothing in particular. God, he sounds so young. “He did all of this. You know he did.”

Mandy’s hand comes out, a shaking finger pointing at the wall, right where Mickey stood. “He almost killed you,” she says. “Worse than the other time even. When he caught you.” Mickey’s hand comes up to wipe his eyes. “With him,” “she says. “With–”

“Don’t say his name,” Mickey chokes out. “I can’t–I can’t–” He rubs the heels of his hands into his eyes. 

“You were so fucking bloody,” Iggy says. “And you wouldn’t wake up. You wouldn’t wake up. We couldn’t–” 

“Dad kept telling us to get away from you,” Mandy says. “And Iggy mouthed off, wasn’t gonna move, and Dad punched him. Broke a tooth.” 

Iggy nods. “That’s why we weren’t there,” he says, voice tight. “When you woke up, Mick. That’s why we weren’t there.” 

Mickey shakes his head. “Not your fault.” He looks at Mandy. Hesitates. “Not your fault either. When Dad was doin’ that. I know he’s the one who–”

“Mickey, come on,” she says, quickly, something sharper than embarrassed. “Don’t need to talk about it with him here.” 

“We stole that stuff for you,” Iggy says. “All that money. So you could go get it.” 

“I know,” she says, burying her head into Iggy’s shoulder. “I know you did.” 

“But we shoulda been there before that,” Iggy says. “We could have stopped him.” 

Mandy shakes her head. “No you couldn’t. No one could.” 

“I should have killed him,” Mickey says. “I was too much of a pussy. I should have,” he pauses, breath shaking out. “Killed him. We shoulda killed him.” 

“He was a monster,” Ian blurts out. They look up, look at him, three sets of teary eyes. The same eyes. The color a little different, the look in them exactly the same. 

“He was a monster,” Ian says again, louder. “Like the kind in old stories. Mythology. The kind that have a hundred heads, and when you cut one off they just grow it back.” 

They keep staring at him. He feels guilty. He should have kept his mouth shut. “Sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have–” 

“No,” Mandy nods. “He was,” she says. “He was exactly like that.” 

They sit in silence. 

“We could get an apartment,” Mickey says. He turns to Ian. “You have two bedrooms in your building?” 

Ian feels guilty at the little thrill it gives him. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, there’s two bedrooms. The landlord has other buildings, too. Nearby.” 

Mandy looks at Iggy. “We’d need to get a house,” she says. “To fit all of us.” 

Iggy nods. “We can do that. Or I can go live with Jamie. He’ll know what to do. Been gone long enough.” 

They’re quiet again. 

“Okay,” Mandy says suddenly. “Okay.” 

Iggy looks up from the floor. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Mandy says. 

Mickey gestures to the hammers. “Let’s go.” 

Mandy holds onto a hammer as she stands. Ian can see her feel the weight in her hands.

Iggy picks up a hammer too. “Remember havin’ this in my room,” he says, examining the handle.. “Just in case he came in. Not like I could ever fuckin’ grab it in time.” 

Mickey looks like he’s going to say something, but Iggy turns, and in two strides he’s attacking the wall, and shortly after, Ian can hear Mandy screaming while thud after thud lands. Ian takes it in, the crumbling, the wood splitting. He sees it all, things revealed underneath, slowly coming into view. 

Mickey drops the mallet, but Iggy keeps swinging, and so does Mandy. He walks toward Ian, all sweat and plaster dust. 

“Ian,” he says. “Ian, what’s going to happen?” 

Ian’s hand comes up to his face. He wipes against the sweat. “Whatever you want,” he says. “Whatever you want to happen.” 

Mickey nods, grabbing at Ian’s hands. “But how, though. What am I doing? What if I can’t? What if it’s winter and we still don’t got it done?” 

“We can,” Ian says firmly. “Mickey, I’ll help you. I meant what I said. I’ll help you.” 

“You don’t gotta,” Mickey says, shaking his head, eyes darting around his room. 

Ian’s hands come to his face, holding Mickey, finding his eyes. "I want to.” 

“Yeah? Really?” 

“Yeah, really.” Ian says. “Think of how it’s gonna be. It’s gonna be beautiful.” 

“I can’t see how,” Mickey says, shaking his head, eyes still darting, “I can’t see it. I can’t–” He finds Ian’s eyes again. “It’s so much. It’s too much. It’s so–” 

“Life doesn’t have to be like this, you know? I mean, it doesn't have to stay like this. Broken." Ian says, and he is surprised how he can focus on Mickey’s face so clearly, past the noise of Iggy’s grunts and Mandy’s screamed words. Focus on Mickey’s eyes. Mickey knows what he means. _Safe._ “It’ll be better, okay? You’ll know what to do. It’s like you always say, right? How you can see how the plan should work once the building is down to frame? We’re gonna get it to frame. Then you can see it. You’ll see it. I know you will.” 

“And then what?” 

Ian bends down, hand finding the handle. “Whatever you want,” he says. “You can do anything you want.” 

“And you’ll help? You’ll, you know, stick around? Finish?” _You happy now?_

“Of course I will.” 

“But what if I can’t do it. What if I freak out or somethin’.” 

“What if I do?” 

Mickey shakes his head. “You won’t.” 

“You won’t either.” He passes Mickey the mallet. “Go.” 

Ian sits on the bed. He hears the noise, the cracking, the crying, the anger through teeth. He sees Mickey, pulling away again, lowering the mallet to his side. Mickey crosses the room and lays the mallet on the bed. He’s panting, looking into Ian’s eyes before he grabs at his face, kissing him hard. 

Ian remembers Mickey that first day, that second day, every day, remembers the door in the bathroom, the ducks in the chimney, the way he looks in a mask, the way he looked that night at his house. _It's more like I don't know what to even fuckin' do._ He sees him leaning over the plans laying out on the plywood between the sawhorses, pointing, nodding. He sees him then like he sees him now, just as real, feeling his lips against his. Mickey is real, really alive, really kissing him. Loving him. Ian can feel the sweat on his back as he reaches for him. 

“It’s gonna be beautiful,” Ian says as he pulls away. “You’re gonna see it any second now.” The wood frames, the mold behind the walls in the bathrooms, the sink that doesn’t really work, the rats in the walls. 

“I’m gonna see it,” Mickey says, as if he is trying to convince himself. 

Behind them, Iggy and Mandy keep swinging. Ian can hear Mandy chanting “You mother,” slam “fucker “slam “fucking” slam “kill you” slam.

“And then what?” 

“And then you’ll know,” Ian says quietly, and for a moment he doesn’t know if Mickey hears him. “You’ll know, just like I knew you. Like I know you.” 

Mickey nods fast. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, yeah. Okay, like that. I can do that.” 

He kisses Ian once again, fast. Ian watches them swing away, one after another, pulling everything down. The posters, the water damage. It’s the past. It’s over now. They can rebuild it. Ian, too. He will help him. He will help all of them, just like he said he would. He rubs his hands on his jeans and stands. 

“What can I do to help?” he says. 

Mickey turns. His eyes are so blue. They are always so blue. “Here,” Mickey says. “Come here. I’ll show you.”


End file.
